THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


WILLIAM^ 
AND  ANNE 
HABBERLEY, 


KNEBWORTH   LIMITED    EDITION 


THE    PARISIANS 


BY 

EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON 

(LOUD    LYTTOX) 

IN    TWO    VOLUMES 
VOL.    I. 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

ESTES    AND     I.AUR1AT 
1891 


KNEBWORTH   LIMITED   EDITION. 
Limited  to  One  Thousand  Copies. 

No,  5.9.5..... 


College 
Library 

PR 
4922 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 

(BY  THE  AUTHOR'S  SON.) 


"  The  Parisians  "  and  "  Kenelm  Chillingly  "  were  begun 
about  the  same  time,  and  had  their  common  origin  in  the 
same  central  idea.  That  idea  first  found  fantastic  expres- 
sion in  "  The  Coming  Race ;  "  and  the  three  books,  taken 
together,  constitute  a  special  group,  distinctly  apart  from 
all  the  other  works  of  their  author. 

The  satire  of  his  earlier  novels  is  a  protest  against  false 
social  respectabilities ;  the  humour  of  his  later  ones  is  a 
protest  against  the  disrespect  of  social  realities.  By  the 
first  he  sought  to  promote  social  sincerity  and  the  free  play 
of  personal  character ;  by  the  last,  to  encourage  mutual 
charity  and  sympathy  amongst  all  classes,  on  whose  inter- 
relation depends  the  character  of  society  itself.  But  in 
these  three  books,  his  latest  fictions,  the  moral  purpose  is 
more  definite  and  exclusive.  Each  of  them  is  an  expostu- 
lation against  what  seemed  to  him  the  perilous  popularity 
of  certain  social  and  political  theories,  or  a  warning  against 
the  influence  of  certain  intellectual  tendencies  upon  indi- 
vidual character  and  national  life.  This  purpose,  however, 
though  common  to  the  three  fictions,  is  worked  out  in  each 
of  them  by  a  different  method.  "  The  Coming  Race  "  is  a 
work  of  pure  fancy,  and  the  satire  of  it  is  vague  and  spor- 
tive. The  outlines  of  a  definite  purpose  are  more  distinctly 


vi  PREFATORY  NOTE. 

drawn  in  "  Chillingly,"  —  a  romance  which  has  the  source 
of  its  effect  in  a  highly  wrought  imagination.  The  humour 
and  pathos  of  "  Chillingly "  are  of  a  kind  incompatible 
with  the  design  of  "  The  Parisians,"  which  is  a  work  of 
dramatized  observation.  "  Chillingly  "  is  a  romance  ;  "  The 
Parisians "  is  a  novel.  The  subject  of  "  Chillingly "  is 
psychological;  that  of  "The  Parisians"  is  social.  The 
author's  object  in  "  Chillingly "  being  to  illustrate  the 
effects  of  "  modern  ideas "  upon  an  individual  character, 
he  has  confined  his  narrative  to  the  biography  of  that  one 
character  ;  hence  the  simplicity  of  plot  and  small  number 
of  dramatis  personce,  whereby  the  work  gains  in  height  and 
depth  what  it  loses  in  breadth  of  surface.  "  The  Parisians," 
on  the  contrary,  is  designed  to  illustrate  the  effect  of 
"  modern  ideas  "  upon  a  whole  community.  This  novel  is 
therefore  panoramic  in  the  profusion  and  variety  of  figures 
presented  by  it  to  the  reader's  imagination.  No  exclusive 
prominence  is  vouchsafed  to  any  of  these  figures.  All  of 
them  are  drawn  and  coloured  with  an  equal  care,  but  by 
means  of  the  bold,  broad  touches  necessary  for  their  effec- 
tive presentation  on  a  canvas  so  large  and  so  crowded. 
Such  figures  are,  indeed,  but  the  component  features  of 
one  great  form,  and  their  actions  only  so  many  modes  of 
one  collective  impersonal  character,  — that  of  the  Parisian 
Society  of  Imperial  and  Democratic  France  ;  a  character 
everywhere  present  and  busy  throughout  the  story,  of 
which  it  is  the  real  hero  or  heroine.  This  society  was 
doubtless  selected  for  characteristic  illustration  as  being 
the  most  advanced  in  the  progress  of  "  modern  ideas." 
Thus,  for  a  complete  perception  of  its  writer's  fundamental 
purpose,  "  The  Parisians  "  should  be  read  in  connection  with 
"  Chillingly,"  and  these  two  books  in  connection  with 
"  The  Coming  Race."  It  will  then  be  perceived  that 
through  the  medium  of  alternate  fancy,  sentiment,  and 


PREFATORY  NOTE.  vii 

observation,  assisted  by  humour  and  passion,  these  three 
books  (in  all  other  respects  so  different  from  each  other) 
complete  the  presentation  of  the  same  purpose  under 
different  aspects,  and  thereby  constitute  a  group  of  fictions 
which  claims  a  separate  place  of  its  own  in  any  thoughtful 
classification  of  their  author's  works. 

One  last  word  to  those  who  will  miss  from  these  pages 
the  connecting  and  completing  touches  of  the  master's 
hand.  It  may  be  hoped  that  such  a  disadvantage,  though 
irreparable,  is  somewhat  mitigated  by  the  essential  char- 
acter of  the  work  itself.  The  aesthetic  merit  of  this  kind 
of  novel  is  in  the  vivacity  of  a  general  effect  produced  by 
large,  swift  strokes  of  character  ;  and  in  such  strokes,  if 
they  be  by  a  great  artist,  force  and  freedom  of  style  must 
still  be  apparent,  even  when  they  are  left  rough  and  un- 
finished. Nor  can  any  lack  of  final  verbal  correction  much 
diminish  the  intellectual  value  which  many  of  the  more 
thoughtful  passages  of  the  present  work  derive  from  a 
long,  keen,  and  practical  study  of  political  phenomena, 
guided  by  personal  experience  of  public  life,  and  enlight- 
ened by  a  large,  instinctive  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart. 

Such  a  belief  is,  at  least,  encouraged  by  the  private  com- 
munications spontaneously  made  to  him  who  expresses  it, 
by  persons  of  political  experience  and  social  position  in 
France,  who  have  acknowledged  the  general  accuracy  of 
the  author's  descriptions,  and  noticed  the  suggestive  saga- 
city and  penetration  of  his  occasional  comments  on  the 
circumstances  and  sentiments  he  describes. 

L. 


INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER. 


THEY  who  chance  to  have  read  the  "  Coining  Eace "  may 
perhaps  remember  that  I,  the  adventurous  discoverer  of  the 
land  without  a  sun,  concluded  the  sketch  of  my  adventures  by 
a  brief  reference  to  the  malady  which,  though  giving  no  per- 
ceptible notice  of  its  encroachments,  might,  in  the  opinion  of 
my  medical  attendant,  prove  suddenly  fatal. 

I  had  brought  my  little  book  to  this  somewhat  melancholy 
close  a  few  years  before  the  date  of  its  publication,  and  in  the 
meanwhile  I  was  induced  to  transfer  my  residence  to  Paris, 
in  order  to  place  myself  under  the  care  of  an  English  physi- 
cian, renowned  for  his  successful  treatment  of  complaints 
analogous  to  my  own. 

I  was  the  more  readily  persuaded  to  undertake  this  jour- 
ney,—  partly  because  I  enjoyed  a  familiar  acquaintance  with 
the  eminent  physician  referred  to,  who  had  commenced  his 
career  and  founded  his  reputation  in  the  United  States ;  partly 
because  I  had  become  a  solitary  man,  the  ties  of  home  broken, 
and  dear  friends  of  mine  were  domiciled  in  Paris,  with  whom 
I  should  be  sure  of  tender  sympathy  and  cheerful  companion- 
ship. I  had  reason  to  be  thankful  for  this  change  of  resi- 
dence: the  skill  of  Dr.  C soon  restored  me  to  health. 

Brought  much  into  contact  with  various  circles  of  Parisian 
society,  I  became  acquainted  with  the  persons  and  a  witness 
of  the  events  that  form  the  substance  of  the  tale  I  am  about 
to  submit  to  the  public,  which  has  treated  my  former  book 
with  so  generous  an  indulgence.  Sensitively  tenacious  of 
that  character  for  strict  and  unalloyed  veracity  which,  I 
natter  myself,  my  account  of  the  abodes  and  manners  of  the 
Vril-ya  has  established,  I  could  have  wished  to  preserve  the 


x  INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER. 

following  narrative  no  less  jealously  guarded  than  its  prede- 
cessor from  the  vagaries  of  fancy.  But  Truth  undisguised, 
never  welcome  in  any  civilized  community  above  ground,  is 
exposed  at  this  time  to  especial  dangers  in  Paris ;  and  my  life 
would  not  be  worth  an  hour's  purchase  if  I  exhibited  her  in 
puris  naturalibus  to  the  eyes  of  a  people  wholly  unfamiliar- 
ized  to  a  spectacle  so  indecorous.  That  care  for  one's  perso- 
nal safety  which  is  the  first  duty  of  thoughtful  man  compels 
me  therefore  to  reconcile  the  appearance  of  la  Verit6  to  the 
bienseances  of  the  polished  society  in  which  la  Liberte  admits 
no  opinion  not  dressed  after  the  last  fashion. 

Attired  as  fiction,  Truth  may  be  peacefully  received;  and, 
despite  the  necessity  thus  imposed  by  prudence,  I  indulge 
the  modest  hope  that  I  do  not  in  these  pages  unfaithfully  rep- 
resent certain  prominent  types  of  the  brilliant  population 
which  has  invented  so  many  varieties  of  Koom-Posh ; *  and 
even  when  it  appears  hopelessly  lost  in  the  slough  of  a  Glek- 
Nas,  re-emerges  fresh  and  lively  as  if  from  an  invigorating 
plunge  into  the  Fountain  of  Youth.  0  Paris,  foyer  des  idees, 
et  ceil  du  monde  !  —  animated  contrast  to  the  serene  tranquil- 
lity of  the  Vril-ya,  which,  nevertheless,  thy  noisiest  philoso- 
phers ever  pretend  to  make  the  goal  of  their  desires :  of  all 
communities  on  which  shines  the  sun  and  descend  the  rains 
of  heaven,  fertilizing  alike  wisdom  and  folly,  virtue  and  vice ; 
in  every  city  men  have  yet  built  on  this  earth, —  mayest  thou, 
O  Paris,  be  the  last  to  brave  the  wands  of  the  Coming  Eace 
and  be  reduced  into  cinders  for  the  sake  of  the  common  good ! 

TISH. 

PARIS,  August  28,  1872. 

1  Koom-Posh,  Glek-Nas.  For  the  derivation  of  these  terms  and  their 
metaphorical  signification,  I  must  refer  the  reader  to  the  "  Coming  Race," 
chapter  xii.,  on  the  language  of  the  Vril-ya.  To  those  who  have  not  read 
or  have  forgotten  that  historical  composition,  it  may  he  convenient  to  state 
briefly  that  Koom-Posh  with  the  Vril-ya  is  the  name  for  the  government  of 
the  many,  or  the  ascendency  of  the  most  ignorant  or  hollow,  and  may  be 
loosely  rendered  Hollow-Bosh.  When  Koom-Posh  degenerates  from  popular 
ignorance  into  the  popular  ferocity  which  precedes  its  decease,  the  name  for 
that  state  of  things  is  Glek-Nas ;  namely,  the  universal  strife-rot. 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 
VOL.  I. 


PAGE 
ALAIN   AND   LEMERCIER  MEETING  THE   STRANGE  LADY    IN   THE 

Bois  DE  BOULOGNE Frontispiece 

GUSTAVE  RAMEAU,  GRAHAM,  AND  ISAURA  AT  M.  SAVARIN'S    .     .     143 

JULIE  CAUMARTIN 164 

"EVIDENTLY  THERE  WAS  MORE  THAN  ONE  MODE  OF  INGRESS"     .     274 


THE     PARISIANS 


THE    PARISIANS, 


BOOK    I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  a  bright  day  in  the  early  spring  of  1869.  All  Paris 
seemed  to  have  turned  out  to  enjoy  itself.  The  Tuileries, 
the  Champs  Elysees,  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  swarmed  with 
idlers.  A  stranger  might  have  wondered  where  Toil  was  at 
work,  and  in  what  nook  Poverty  lurked  concealed.  A  mil- 
lionnaire  from  the  London  Exchange,  as  he  looked  round  on 
the  mayasins,  the  equipages,  the  dresses  of  the  women;  as 
he  inquired  the  prices  in  the  shops  and  the  rent  of  apart- 
ments,—  might  have  asked  himself,  in  envious  wonder,  How 
on  earth  do  those  gay  Parisians  live?  What  is  their  fortune? 
Where  does  it  come  from? 

As  the  day  declined,  many  of  the  scattered  loungers  crowded 
into  the  Boulevards ;  the  cafes  and  restaurants  began  to  light 
up. 

About  this  time  a  young  man,  who  might  be  some  five  or 
six  and  twenty,  was  walking  along  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens, 
heeding  little  the  throng  through  which  he  glided  his  solitary 
way:  there  was  that  in  his  aspect  and  bearing  which  caught 
attention.  He  looked  a  somebody;  but  though  unmistakably 
a  Frenchman,  not  a  Parisian.  His  dress  was  not  in  the  pre- 
vailing mode :  to  a  practised  eye  it  betrayed  the  taste  and  the 
cut  of  a  provincial  tailor.  His  gait  was  not  that  of  the  Pari- 
sian,—  less  lounging,  more  stately;  and,  unlike  the  Parisian, 
he  seemed  indifferent  to  the  gaze  of  others. 


2  THE  PARISIANS. 

Nevertheless  there  was  about  him  that  air  of  dignity  or  dis- 
tinction which  those  who  are  reared  from  their  cradle  in  the 
pride  of  birth  acquire  so  unconsciously  that  it  seems  heredi- 
tary and  inborn.  It  must  also  be  confessed  that  the  young 
man  himself  was  endowed  with  a  considerable  share  of  that 
nobility  which  Nature  capriciously  distributes  among  her  fa- 
vourites with  little  respect  for  their  pedigree  and  blazon, — 
the  nobility  of  form  and  face.  He  was  tall  and  well  shaped, 
with  graceful  length  of  limb  and  fall  of  shoulders ;  his  face 
was  handsome,  of  the  purest  type  of  French  masculine  beauty, 
—  the  nose  inclined  to  be  aquiline,  and  delicately  thin,  with 
finely-cut  open  nostrils;  the  complexion  clear, —  the  eyes 
large,  of  a  light  hazel,  with  dark  lashes, —  the  hair  of  a  chest- 
nut brown,  with  no  tint  pf  auburn, — the  beard  and  mustache 
a  shade  darker,  clipped  short,  not  disguising  the  outline  of 
lips,  which  were  now  compressed,  as  if  smiles  had  of  late 
been  unfamiliar  to  them ;  yet  such  compression  did  not  seem 
in  harmony  with  the  physiognomical  character  of  their  for- 
mation, which  was  that  assigned  by  Lavater  to  temperaments 
easily  moved  to  gayety  and  pleasure. 

Another  man,  about  his  own  age,  coming  quickly  out  of 
one  of  the  streets  of  the  Chausee  d'Antin,  brushed  close  by 
the  stately  pedestrian  above  described,  caught  sight  of  his 
countenance,  stopped  short,  and  exclaimed,  "  Alain !  "  The 
person  thus  abruptly  accosted  turned  his  eye  tranquilly  on 
the  eager  face,  of  which  all  the  lower  part  was  enveloped  in 
black  beard;  and  slightly  lifting  his  hat,  with  a  gesture  of 
the  head  that  implied,  "Sir,  you  are  mistaken;  I  have  not 
the  honour  to  know  you,"  continued  his  slow  indifferent  way. 
The  would-be  acquaintance  was  not  so  easily  rebuffed. 
"Peste,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth,  "I  am  certainly  right. 
He  is  not  much  altered :  of  course  /  am  ;  ten  years  of  Paris 
would  improve  an  orang-outang."  Quickening  his  step,  and 
regaining  the  side  of  the  man  he  had  called  "Alain,"  he  said, 
with  a  well-bred  mixture  of  boldness  and  courtesy  in  his  tone 
and  countenance, — 

"  Ten  thousand  pardons  if  I  am  wrong.  But  surely  I  accost 
Alain  de  Kerouec,  son  of  the  Marquis  de  Eochebriant. " 


THE  PARISIANS.  3 

"True,  sir;  but  —  " 

"But  you  do  not  remember  me,  your  old  college  friend, 
Frederic  Lemercier?" 

"Is  it  possible?"  cried  Alain,  cordially,  and  with  an  ani- 
mation which  changed  the  whole  character  of  his  countenance. 
"  My  dear  Frederic,  my  dear  friend,  this  is  indeed  good  for- 
tune! So  you,  too,  are  at  Paris?" 

"Of  course;  and  you?  Just  come,  I  perceive,"  he  added, 
somewhat  satirically,  as,  linking  his  arm  in  his  new-found 
friend's,  he  glanced  at  the  cut  of  that  friend's  coat-collar. 

"I  have  been  here  a  fortnight,"  replied  Alain. 

"Hem!  I  suppose  you  lodge  in  the  old  Hotel  de  Roche- 
briant.  I  passed  it  yesterday,  admiring  its  vast  fagade,  little 
thinking  you  were  its  inmate." 

"Neither  am  I;  the  hotel  does  not  belong  to  me;  it  was 
sold  some  years  ago  by  my  father." 

"  Indeed !  I  hope  your  father  got  a  good  price  for  it ;  those 
grand  hotels  have  trebled  their  value  within  the  last  five 
years.  And  how  is  your  father?  Still  the  same  polished 
grand  seigneur  ?  I  never  saw  him  but  once,  you  know ;  and  I 
shall  never  forget  his  smile,  style  grand  monarque,  when  he 
patted  me  on  the  head  and  tipped  me  ten  napoleons." 

"  My  father  is  no  more, "  said  Alain,  gravely ;  "  he  has  been 
dead  nearly  three  years." 

"  del !  forgive  me ;  I  am  greatly  shocked.  Hem !  so  you 
are  now  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  a  great  historical  name, 
worth  a  large  sum  in  the  market.  Few  such  names  left. 
Superb  place  your  old  chateau,  is  it  not?" 

"  A  superb  place,  no  —  a  venerable  ruin,  yes !  " 

"  Ah,  a  ruin !  so  much  the  better.  All  the  bankers  are  mad 
after  ruins :  so  charming  an  amusement  to  restore  them.  You 
will  restore  yours,  without  doubt.  I  will  introduce  you  to 
such  an  architect!  has  the  moyen  age  at  his  fingers'  ends. 
Dear,  —  but  a  genius." 

The  young  Marquis  smiled,  —  for  since  he  had  found  a  col- 
lege friend,  his  face  showed  that  it  could  smile, —  smiled,  but 
not  cheerfully,  and  answered, — 

"I  have  no  intention  to  restore  Rochebriant.     The  walls 


4  THE  PARISIANS. 

are  solid :  they  have  weathered  the  storms  of  six  centuries ; 
they  will  last  ray  time,  and  with  me  the  race  perishes." 

"Bah!  the  race  perish,  indeed!  you  will  marry.  Parlez- 
moi  de  ya :  you  could  not  come  to  a  better  man.  I  have  a  list 
of  all  the  heiresses  at  Paris,  bound  in  russia  leather.  You 
may  take  your  choice  out  of  twenty.  Ah,  if  I  were  but  a 
Eochebriant!  It  is  an  infernal  thing  to  come  into  the  world 
a  Lemercier.  I  am  a  democrat,  of  course.  A  Lemercier 
would  be  in  a  false  position  if  he  were  not.  But  if  any  one 
would  leave  me  twenty  acres  of  land,  with  some  antique  right 
to  the  De  and  a  title,  faith,  would  not  I  be  an  aristocrat,  and 
stand  up  for  my  order?  But  now  we  have  met,  pray  let  us 
dine  together.  Ah!  no  doubt  you  are  engaged  every  day  for 
a  month.  A  Kochebriant  just  new  to  Paris  must  be  fete  by 
all  the  Faubourg." 

"No,"  answered  Alain,  simply,  "I  am  not  engaged;  my 
range  of  acquaintance  is  more  circumscribed  than  you 
suppose." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  me.  I  am  luckily  disengaged  to- 
day, which  is  not  often  the  case,  for  I  am  in  some  request  in 
my  own  set,  though  it  is  not  that  of  the  Faubourg.  Where 
shall  we  dine?  —  at  the  Trois  Freres?" 

"  Wherever  you  please.  I  know  no  restaurant  at  Paris,  ex- 
cept a  very  ignoble  one,  close  by  my  lodging." 

"Apropos,  where  do  you  lodge?" 

"Eue  de  1'Universite,  Numero ." 

"  A  fine  street,  but  triste.  If  you  have  no  longer  your  fam- 
ily hotel,  you  have  no  excuse  to  linger  in  that  museum  of 
mummies,  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain;  you  must  go  into  one 
of  the  new  quarters  by  the  Champs  Elysees.  Leave  it  to  me; 
I  '11  find  you  a  charming  apartment.  I  know  one  to  be  had  a 
bargain, —  a  bagatelle,  —  five  hundred  naps  a-year.  Cost  you 
about  two  or  three  thousand  more  to  furnish  tolerably,  not 
showily.  Leave  all  to  me.  In  three  days  you  shall  be  set- 
tled. A  proposf  horses!  You  must  have  English  ones. 
How  many? — three  for  the  saddle,  two  for  your  coupe? 
I  '11  find  them  for  you.  I  will  write  to  London  to-morrow. 
Reese  [Kice]  is  your  man." 


THE  PARISIANS.  5 

Spare  yourself  that  trouble,  my  dear  Frederic.  I  keep 
no  horses  and  no  coupe.  I  shall  not  change  my  apartment." 
As  he  said  this,  Kochebriant  drew  himself  up  somewhat 
haughtily. 

"Faith,"  thought  Lemercier,  "is  it  possible  that  the  Mar- 
quis is  poor?  No.  I  have  always  heard  that  the  Eoche- 
briants  were  among  the  greatest  proprietors  in  Bretagne. 
Most  likely,  with  all  his  innocence  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Ger- 
main, he  knows  enough  of  it  to  be  aware  that  I,  Frederic 
Lemercier,  am  not  the  man  to  patronize  one  of  its  greatest 
nobles.  Sacre  bleu !  if  I  thought  that ;  if  he  meant  to  give 
himself  airs  to  me,  his  old  college  friend,  —  I  would  —  I 
would  call  him  out." 

Just  as  M.  Lemercier  had  come  to  that  bellicose  resolution, 
the  Marquis  said,  with  a  smile  which,  though  frank,  was  not 
without  a  certain  grave  melancholy  in  its  expression,  "My 
dear  Frederic,  pardon  me  if  I  seem  to  receive  your  friendly 
offers  ungraciously.  But  I  believe  that  I  have  reasons  you 
will  approve  for  leading  at  Paris  a  life  which  you  certainly 
will  not  envy;"  then,  evidently  desirous  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, he  said  in  a  livelier  tone,  "  But  what  a  marvellous  city 
this  Paris  of  ours  is !  Remember  I  had  never  seen  it  before : 
it  burst  on  me  like  a  city  in  the  Arabian  Nights  two  weeks 
ago.  And  that  which  strikes  me  most  —  I  say  it  with  regret 
and  a  pang  of  conscience  —  is  certainly  not  the  Paris  of  former 
times,  but  that  Paris  which  M.  Buonaparte  —  I  beg  pardon, 
which  the  Emperor  —  has  called  up  around  him,,  and  identi- 
fied forever  with  his  reign.  It  is  what  is  new  in  Paris  that 
strikes  and  enthrals  me.  Here  I  see  the  life  of  France,  and 
I  belong  to  her  tombs !  " 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  said  Lemercier.  "If  you 
think  that  because  your  father  and  grandfather  were  Legiti- 
mists, you  have  not  the  fair  field  of  living  ambition  open  to 
you  under  the  Empire,  you  never  were  more  mistaken. 
Moyen  age,  and  even  rococo,  are  all  the  rage.  You  have  no 
idea  how  valuable  your  name  would  be  either  at  the  Imperial 
Court  or  in  a  Commercial  Company.  But  with  your  fortune 
you  are  independent  of  all  but  fashion  and  the  Jockey  Club. 


6  THE  PARISIANS. 

And  a  propos  of  that,  pardon  me, —  what  villain  made  your 
coat?  —  let  me  know;  I  will  denounce  him  to  the  police." 

Half  amused,  half  amazed,  Alain  Marquis  de  Kochebriant 
looked  at  Frederic  Lemercier  much  as  a  good-tempered  lion 
may  look  upon  a  lively  poodle  who  takes  a  liberty  with  his 
mane,  and  after  a  pause  he  replied  curtly,  "The  clothes  I 
wear  at  Paris  were  made  in  Bretagne;  and  if  the  name  of 
Rochebriant  be  of  any  value  at  all  in  Paris,  which  I  doubt, 
let  me  trust  that  it  will  make  me  acknowledged  as  gentil- 
homme,  whatever  my  taste  in  a  coat  or  whatever  the  doctrines 
of  a  club  composed  —  of  jockeys." 

"  Ha,  ha ! "  cried  Lemercier,  freeing  himself  from  the  arm 
of  his  friend,  and  laughing  the  more  irresistibly  as  he  encoun- 
tered the  grave  look  of  the  Marquis.  "Pardon  me, — I  can't 
help  it, — the  Jockey  Club,  —  composed  of  jockeys!  —  it  is  too 
much!  — the  best  joke.  My  dear  Alain,  there  is  some  of  the 
best  blood  of  Europe  in  the  Jockey  Club;  they  would  exclude 
a  plain  bourgeois  like  me.  But  it  is  all  the  same :  in  one  re- 
spect you  are  quite  right.  Walk  in  a  blouse  if  you  please : 
you  are  still  Rochebriant ;  you  would  only  be  called  eccentric. 
Alas !  I  am  obliged  to  send  to  London  for  my  pantaloons :  that 
comes  of  being  a  Lemercier.  But  here  we  are  in  the  Palais 
Royal." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  salons  of  the  Trois  Freres  were  crowded ;  our  friends 
found  a  table  with  some  little  difficulty.  Lemercier  proposed 
a  private  cabinet,  which,  for  some  reason  known  to  himself, 
the  Marquis  declined. 

Lemercier  spontaneously  and  unrequested  ordered  the 
dinner  and  the  wines. 

While  waiting  for  their  oysters,  with  which,  when  in  sea- 
son, French  bon-vlvants  usually  commence  their  dinner,  Le- 


THE  PARISIANS.  7 

mercier  looked  round  the  salon  with  that  air  of  inimitable, 
scrutinizing,  superb  impertinence  which  distinguishes  the 
Parisian  dandy.  Some  of  the  ladies  returned  his  glance  co- 
quettishly,  for  Lemercier  was  beau  gargon  ;  others  turned 
aside  indignantly,  and  muttered  something  to  the  gentlemen 
dining  with  them.  The  said  gentlemen,  when  old,  shook 
their  heads,  and  continued  to  eat  unmoved;  when  young, 
turned  briskly  round,  and  looked  at  first  fiercely  at  M.  Le- 
mercier, but,  encountering  his  eye  through  the  glass  which 
he  had  screwed  into  his  socket,  noticing  the  hardihood  of  his 
countenance  and  the  squareness  of  his  shoulders,  even  they 
turned  back  to  the  tables,  shook  their  heads,  and  continued 
to  eat  unmoved,  just  like  the  old  ones. 

"  Ah !  "  cried  Lemercier,  suddenly,  "  here  comes  a  man  you 
should  know,  mon  cher.  He  will  tell  you  how  to  place  your 
money,  —  a  rising  man,  a  coming  man,  a  future  minister. 
Ah!  bonjour,  Duplessis,  bon  jour,"  kissing  his  hand  to  a  gen- 
tleman who  had  just  entered  and  was  looking  about  him  for 
a  seat.  He  was  evidently  well  and  favourably  known  at  the 
Trois  Freres.  The  waiters  had  flocked  round  him,  and  were 
pointing  to  a  table  by  the  window,  which  a  saturnine  English- 
man, who  had  dined  off  a  beefsteak  and  potatoes,  was  about 
to  vacate. 

M.  Duplessis,  having  first  assured  himself,  like  a  prudent 
man,  that  his  table  was  secure,  having  ordered  his  oysters, 
his  chablis,  and  his  potage  a  la  bisque,  now  paced  calmly  and 
slowly  across  the  salon,  and  halted  before  Lemercier. 

Here  let  me  pause  for  a  moment,  and  give  the  reader  a 
rapid  sketch  of  the  two  Parisians. 

Frederic  Lemercier  is  dressed,  somewhat  too  showily,  in 
the  extreme  of  the  prevalent  fashion.  He  wears  a  superb  pin 
in  his  cravat,  —  a  pin  worth  two  thousand  francs;  he  wears 
rings  on  his  fingers,  breloques  to  his  watch-chain.  He  has 
a  warm  though  dark  complexion,  thick  black  eyebrows,  full 
lips,  a  nose  somewhat  turned  up,  but  not  small,  very  fine 
large  dark  eyes,  a  bold,  open,  somewhat  impertinent  expres- 
sion of  countenance;  withal  decidedly  handsome,  thanks  to 
colouring,  youth,  and  vivacity  of  regard. 


8  THE  PARISIANS. 

Lucien  Duplessis,  bending  over  the  table,  glancing  first 
with  curiosity  at  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  who  leans  his 
cheek  on  his  hand  and  seems  not  to  notice  him,  then  concen- 
trating his  attention  on  Frederic  Lemercier,  who  sits  square 
with  his  hands  clasped,  —  Lucien  Duplessis  is  somewhere 
between  forty  and  fifty,  rather  below  the  middle  height, 
slender,  but  not  slight, — what  in  English  phrase  is  called 
"wiry."  He  is  dressed  with  extreme  simplicity:  black  frock- 
coat  buttoned  up;  black  cravat  worn  higher  than  men  who 
follow  the  fashions  wear  their  neckcloths  nowadays ;  a  hawk's 
eye  and  a  hawk's  beak;  hair  of  a  dull  brown,  very  short,  and 
wholly  without  curl;  his  cheeks  thin  and  smoothly  shaven, 
but  he  wears  a  mustache  and  imperial,  plagiarized  from 
those  of  his  sovereign,  and,  like  all  plagiarisms,  carrying  the 
borrowed  beauty  to  extremes,  so  that  the  points  of  mustache 
and  imperial,  stiffened  and  sharpened  by  cosmetics  which 
must  have  been  composed  of  iron,  looked  like  three  long 
stings  guarding  lip  and  jaw  from  invasion;  a  pale  olive- 
brown  complexion,-  eyes  small,  deep-sunk,  calm,  piercing; 
his  expression  of  face  at  first  glance  not  striking,  except  for 
quiet  immovability.  Observed  more  heedfully,  the  expres- 
sion was  keenly  intellectual, —  determined  about  the  lips,  cal- 
culating about  the  brows :  altogether  the  face  of  no  ordinary 
man,  and  one  not,  perhaps,  without  fine  and  high  qualities, 
concealed  from  the  general  gaze  by  habitual  reserve,  but  jus- 
tifying the  confidence  of  those  whom  he  admitted  into  his 
intimacy. 

"Ah,  mon  cher,"  said  Lemercier,  "you  promised  to  call  on 
me  yesterday  at  two  o'clock.  I  waited  in  for  you  half  an 
hour;  you  never  came." 

"ISTo;  I  went  first  to  the  Bourse.  The  shares  in  that 
Company  we  spoke  of  have  fallen;  they  will  fall  much 
loAver:  foolish  to  buy  in  yet;  so  the  object  of  my  calling 
on  you  was  over.  I  took  it  for  granted  you  would  not 
wait  if  I  failed  my  appointment.  Do  you  go  to  the  opera 
to-night?  " 

"I  think  not;  nothing  worth  going  for:  besides,  I  have 
found  an  old  friend,  to  whom  I  consecrate  this  evening.  Let 


THE  PARISIANS.  9 

me  introduce  you  to  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant.  Alain,  M. 
Duplessis." 

The  two  gentlemen  bowed. 

"I  had  the  honour  to  be  known  to  Monsieur  your  father," 
said  Duplessis. 

"Indeed,"  returned  Rochebriant.  "He  had  not  visited 
Paris  for  many  years  before  he  died." 

"  It  was  in  London  I  met  him,  at  the  house  of  the  Russian 
Princess  C ." 

The  Marquis  coloured  high,  inclined  his  head  gravely,  and 
made  no  reply.  Here  the  waiter  brought  the  oysters  and  the 
chablis,  and  Duplessis  retired  to  his  own  table. 

"That  is  the  most  extraordinary  man,"  said  Frederic,  as  he 
squeezed  the  lemon  over  his  oysters,  "and  very  much  to  be 
admired." 

"How  so?  I  see  nothing  at  least  to  admire  in  his  face," 
said  the  Marquis,  with  the  bluntness  of  a  provincial. 

"His  face.  Ah!  you  are  a  Legitimist,  —  party  prejudice. 
He  dresses  his  face  after  the  Emperor ;  in  itself  a  very  clever 
face,  surely." 

"  Perhaps,  but  not  an  amiable  one.  He  looks  like  a  bird  of 
prey." 

"All  clever  men  are  birds  of  prey.  The  eagles  are  the 
heroes,  and  the  owls  the  sages.  Duplessis  is  not  an  eagle  nor 
an  owl.  I  should  rather  call  him  a  falcon,  except  that  I 
would  not  attempt  to  hoodwink  him." 

"Call  him  what  you  will,"  said  the  Marquis,  indifferently; 
"  M.  Duplessis  can  be  nothing  to  me." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  answered  Frederic,  somewhat 
nettled  by  the  phlegm  with  which  the  Provincial  regarded 
the  pretensions  of  the  Parisian.  "Duplessis,  I  repeat  it,  is 
an  extraordinary  man.  Though  untitled,  he  descends  from 
your  old  aristocracy;  in  fact,  I  believe,  as  his  name  shows, 
from  the  same  stem  as  the  Richelieus.  His  father  was  a 
great  scholar,  and  I  believe  he  has  read  much  himself.  Might 
have  distinguished  himself  in  literature  or  at  the  bar,  but  his 
parents  died  fearfully  poor;  and  some  distant  relations  in 
commerce  took  charge  of  him,  and  devoted  his  talents  to  the 


10  THE  PARISIANS. 

Bourse.  Seven  years  ago  he  lived  in  a  single  chamber,  au 
quatrieme,  near  the  Luxembourg.  He  has  now  a  hotel,  not 
large  but  charming,  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  worth  at  least 
six  hundred  thousand  francs.  Nor  has  he  made  his  own  for- 
tune alone,  but  that  of  many  others;  some  of  birth  as  high  as 
your  own.  He  has  the  genius  of  riches,  and  knocks  off  a  mil- 
lion as  a  poet  does  an  ode,  by  the  force  of  inspiration.  He  is 
hand-in-glove  with  the  Ministers,  and  has  been  invited  to 
Compiegne  by  the  Emperor.  You  will  find  him  very  useful." 

Alain  made  a  slight  movement  of  incredulous  dissent,  and 
changed  the  conversation  to  reminiscences  of  old  school-boy 
days. 

The  dinner  at  length  came  to  a  close.  Frederic  rang  for  the 
bill, — glanced  over  it.  "  Fifty -nine  francs,"  said  he,  care- 
lessly flinging  down  his  napoleon  and  a  half.  The  Marquis 
silently  drew  forth  his  purse  and  extracted  the  same  sum. 

When  they  were  out  of  the  restaurant,  Frederic  proposed 
adjourning  to  his  own  rooms.  "I  can  promise  you  an  excel- 
lent cigar,  one  of  a  box  given  to  me  by  an  invaluable  young 
Spaniard  attached  to  the  Embassy  here.  Such  cigars  are  not 
to  be  had  at  Paris  for  money,  nor  even  for  love ;  seeing  that 
women,  however  devoted  and  generous,  never  offer  you  any- 
thing better  than  a  cigarette.  Such  cigars  are  only  to  be  had 
for  friendship.  Friendship  is  a  jewel." 

"I  never  smoke,"  answered  the  Marquis,  "but  I  shall  be 
charmed  to  come  to  your  rooms ;  only  don't  let  me  encroach 
on  your  good-nature.  Doubtless  you  have  engagements  for 
the  evening." 

"None  till  eleven  o'clock,  when  I  have  promised  to  go  to  a 
soiree  to  which  I  do  not  offer  to  take  you;  for  it  is  one  of 
those  Bohemian  entertainments  at  which  it  would  do  you 
harm  in  the  Faubourg  to  assist, — at  least  until  you  have 
made  good  your  position.  Let  me  see,  is  not  the  Duchesse  de 
Tarascon  a  relation  of  yours?  " 

"Yes;  my  poor  mother's  first  cousin." 

"  I  congratulate  you.  Tres  grande  dame.  She  will  launch 
you  in  puro  ccelo,  as  Juno  might  have  launched  one  of  her 
young  peacocks." 


THE  PARISIANS.  11 

"There  has  been  no  acquaintance  between  our  houses,"  re- 
turned the  Marquis,  dryly,  "since  the  mesalliance  of  her 
second  nuptials." 

"Mesalliance!  second  nuptials !  Her  second  husband  was 
the  Due  de  Tarascon." 

"A  duke  of  the  First  Empire,  the  grandson  of  a  butcher." 

"Diable!  you  are  a  severe  genealogist,  Monsieur  le  Mar- 
quis. How  can  you  consent  to  walk  arm-in-arm  with  me, 
whose  great-grandfather  supplied  bread  to  the  same  army  to 
which  the  Due  de  Tarascon's  grandfather  furnished  the 
meat?" 

"  My  dear  Frederic,  we  two  have  an  equal  pedigree,  for  our 
friendship  dates  from  the  same  hour.  I  do  not  blame  the 
Duchesse  de  Tarascon  for  marrying  the  grandson  of  a  butcher, 
but  for  marrying  the  son  of  a  man  made  duke  by  a  usurper. 
She  abandoned  the  faith  of  her  house  and  the  cause  of  her 
sovereign.  Therefore  her  marriage  is  a  blot  on  our  scutcheon." 

Frederic  raised  his  eyebrows,  but  had  the  tact  to  pursue 
the  subject  no  further.  He  who  interferes  in  the  quarrels  of 
relations  must  pass  through  life  without  a  friend. 

The  young  men  now  arrived  at  Lemercier's  apartment,  an 
entresol  looking  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  consisting  of 
more  rooms  than  a  bachelor  generally  requires ;  low-pitched, 
indeed,  but  of  good  dimensions,  and  decorated  and  furnished 
with  a  luxury  which  really  astonished  the  provincial,  though, 
with  the  high-bred  pride  of  an  oriental,  he  suppressed  every 
sign  of  surprise. 

Florentine  cabinets,  freshly  retouched  by  the  exquisite  skill 
of  Mombro;  costly  specimens  of  old  Sevres  and  Limoges; 
pictures  and  bronzes  and  marble  statuettes, —  all  well  chosen 
and  of  great  price,  reflected  from  mirrors  in  Venetian  frames, 
—  made  a  coup  d'ceil  very  favourable  to  that  respect  which 
the  human  mind  pays  to  the  evidences  of  money.  Nor  was 
comfort  less  studied  than  splendour.  Thick  carpets  covered 
the  floors,  doubled  and  quilted  portie res  excluded  all  draughts 
from  chinks  in  the  doors.  Having  allowed  his  friend  a  few 
minutes  to  contemplate  and  admire  the  salle  a  manger  and 
salon  which  constituted  his  more  state  apartments,  Frederic 


12  THE  PARISIANS. 

then  conducted  him  into  a  small  cabinet,  fitted  up  with  scar- 
let cloth  and  gold  fringes,  whereon  were  artistically  arranged 
trophies  of  Eastern  weapons  and  Turkish  pipes  with  amber 
mouthpieces. 

There,  placing  the  Marquis  at  ease  on  a  divan  and  flinging 
himself  on  another,  the  Parisian  exquisite  ordered  a  valet, 
well  dressed  as  himself,  to  bring  coffee  and  liqueurs;  and 
after  vainly  pressing  one  of  his  matchless  cigars  on  his  friend, 
indulged  in  his  own  Regalia. 

"They  are  ten  years  old,"  said  Frederic,  with  a  tone  of 
compassion  at  Alain's  self-inflicted  loss, —  "ten  years  old. 
Born  therefore  about  the  year  in  which  we  two  parted  —  " 

"When  you  were  so  hastily  summoned  from  college,"  said 
the  Marquis,  "by  the  news  of  your  father's  illness.  We 
expected  you  back  in  vain.  Have  you  been  at  Paris  ever 
since?" 

"Ever  since;  my  poor  father  died  of  that  illness.  His 
fortune  proved  much  larger  than  was  suspected:  my  share 
amounted  to  an  income  from  investments  in  stocks,  houses, 
etc.,  to  upwards  of  sixty  thousand  francs  a-year;  and  as  I 
wanted  six  years  to  my  majority  of  course  the  capital  on 
attaining  my  majority  would  be  increased  by  accumulation. 
My  mother  desired  to  keep  me  near  her;  my  uncle,  who  was 
joint  guardian  with  her,  looked  with  disdain  on  our  poor 
little  provincial  cottage;  so  promising  an  heir  should  acquire 
his  finishing  education  under  masters  at  Paris.  Long  before 
I  was  of  age,  I  was  initiated  into  politer  mysteries  of  our 
capital  than  those  celebrated  by  Eugene  Sue.  When  I  took 
possession  of  my  fortune  five  years  ago,  I  was  considered  a 
Croesus ;  and  really  for  that  patriarchal  time  I  was  wealthy. 
Now,  alas!  my  accumulations  have  vanished  in  my  outfit; 
and  sixty  thousand  francs  a-year  is  the  least  a  Parisian  can 
live  upon.  It  is  not  only  that  all  prices  have  fabulously  in- 
creased, but  that  the  dearer  things  become,  the  better  people 
live.  When  I  first  came  out,  the  world  speculated  upon  me; 
now,  in  order  to  keep  my  standing,  I  am  forced  to  speculate 
on  the  world.  Hitherto  I  have  not  lost;  Duplessis  let  me 
into  a  few  good  things  this  year,  worth  one  hundred  thousand 


THE  PARISIANS.  13 

francs  or  so.  Croesus  consulted  the  Delphic  Oracle.  Du- 
plessis  was  not  alive  in  the  time  of  Croesus,  or  Croesus  would 
have  consulted  Duplessis." 

Here  there  was  a  ring  at  the  outer  door  of  the  apartment, 
and  in  another  minute  the  valet  ushered  in  a  gentleman  some- 
where about  the  age  of  thirty,  of  prepossessing  countenance, 
and  with  the  indefinable  air  of  good-breeding  and  usage  du 
monde.  Frederic  started  up  to  greet  cordially  the  new-comer, 
and  introduced  him  to  the  Marquis  under  the  name  of  "  Sare 
Grarm  Varn." 

"Decidedly,"  said  the  visitor,  as  he  took  off  his  paletot  and 
seated  himself  beside  the  Marquis, —  "decidedly,  my  dear 
Lemercier,"  said  he,  in  very  correct  French,  and  with  the 
true  Parisian  accent  and  intonation,  "you  Frenchmen  merit 
that  praise  for  polished  ignorance  of  the  language  of  barba- 
rians which  a  distinguished  historian  bestows  on  the  ancient 
Romans.  Permit  me,  Marquis,  to  submit  to  you  the  consid- 
eration whether  Grarm  Varn  is  a  fair  rendering  of  my  name 
as  truthfully  printed  on  this  card." 

The  inscription  on  the  card,  thus  drawn  from  its  case  and 
placed  in  Alain's  hand,  was  — 

MR.  GRAHAM  VANE, 

No. Hue  d'Anjou. 

The  Marquis  gazed  at  it  as  he  might  on  a  hieroglyphic,  and 
passed  it  on  to  Lemercier  in  discreet  silence. 

That  gentleman  made  another  attempt  at  the  barbarian 
appellation. 

"'Grfir —  hfimVarne.'  C'est  $a!  I  triumph!  all  difficul- 
ties yield  to  French  energy." 

Here  the  coffee  and  liqueurs  were  served;  and  after  a 
short  pause  the  Englishman,  who  had  very  quietly  been  ob- 
serving the  silent  Marquis,  turned  to  him  and  said,  "Mon- 
sieur le  Marquis,  I  presume  it  was  your  father  whom  I 
remember  as  an  acquaintance  of  my  own  father  at  Ems.  It 
is  many  years  ago ;  I  was  but  a  child.  The  Count  de  Cham- 
bord  was  then  at  that  enervating  little  spa  for  the  benefit  of 


14  THE  PARISIANS. 

the  Countess's  health.  If  our  friend  Lemercier  does  not 
mangle  your  name  as  he  does  mine,  I  understand  him  to  say 
that  you  are  the  Marquis  de  Kochebriant." 

"  That  is  my  name :  it  pleases  me  to  hear  that  my  father 
was  among  those  who  flocked  to  Ems  to  do  homage  to  the 
royal  personage  who  deigns  to  assume  the  title  of  Count  de 
Chambord." 

"  My  own  ancestors  clung  to  the  descendants  of  James  II. 
till  their  claims  were  buried  in  the  grave  of  the  last  Stuart; 
and  I  honour  the  gallant  men  who,  like  your  father,  revere  in 
an  exile  the  heir  to  their  ancient  kings." 

The  Englishman  said  this  with  grace  and  feeling;  the 
Marquis's  heart  warmed  to  him  at  once. 

"  The  first  loyal  gentilhomme  1  have  met  at  Paris, "  thought 
the  Legitimist ;  "  and,  oh,  shame !  not  a  Frenchman !  " 

Graham  Vane,  now  stretching  himself  and  accepting  the 
cigar  which  Lemercier  offered  him,  said  to  that  gentleman: 
"  You  who  know  your  Paris  by  heart  —  everybody  and  every- 
thing therein  worth  the  knowing,  with  many  bodies  and  many 
things  that  are  not  worth  it  —  can  you  inform  me  who  and 
what  is  a  certain  lady  who  every  fine  day  may  be  seen  walk- 
ing in  a  quiet  spot  at  the  outskirts  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
not  far  from  the  Baron  de  Rothschild's  villa?  The  said  lady 
arrives  at  this  selected  spot  in  a  dark-blue  coupe  without  ar- 
morial bearings,  punctually  at  the  hour  of  three.  She  wears 
always  the  same  dress, — ra  kind  of  gray  pearl-coloured  silk, 
with  a  cachemire  shawl.  In  age  she  may  be  somewhat  about 
twenty  —  a  year  or  so  more  or  less  —  and  has  a  face  as  haunt- 
ing as  a  Medusa's;  not,  however,  a  face  to  turn  a  man  into  a 
stone,  but  rather  of  the  two  turn  a  stone  into  a  man.  A  clear 
paleness,  with  a  bloom  like  an  alabaster  lamp  with  the  light 
flashing  through.  I  borrow  that  illustration  from  Sare  Scott, 
who  applied  it  to  Milor  Bee-ron." 

"I  have  not  seen  the  lady  you  describe,"  answered  Lemer- 
cier, feeling  humiliated  by  the  avowal;  "in  fact,  I  have  not 
been  in  that  sequestered  part  of  the  Bois  for  months ;  but  I 
will  go  to-morrow:  three  o'clock  you  say,  —  leave  it  to  me; 
to-morrow  evening,  if  she  is  a  Parisienne,  you  shall  know  all 


THE  PARISIANS.  15 

about  her.  But,  mon  cher,  you  are  not  of  a  jealous  tempera- 
ment to  confide  your  discovery  to  another." 

"Yes,  I  am  of  a  very  jealous  temperament,"  replied  the 
Englishman;  "but  jealousy  comes  after  love,  and  not  before 
it.  I  am  not  in  love;  I  am  only  haunted.  To-morrow  even- 
ing, then,  shall  we  dine  at  Philippe's,  seven  o'clock?" 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Lemercier;  "and  you  too, 
Alain  ?  " 

"Thank  you,  no,"  said  the  Marquis,  briefly;  and  he  rose, 
drew  on  his  gloves,  and  took  up  his  hat. 

At  these  signals  of  departure,  the  Englishman,  who  did  not 
want  tact  nor  delicacy,  thought  that  he  had  made  himself  de 
trop  in  the  tete-a-tete  of  two  friends  of  the  same  age  and  na- 
tion; and,  catching  up  his  paletot,  said  hastily,  "No,  Mar- 
quis, do  not  go  yet,  and  leave  our  host  in  solitude ;  for  I  have 
an  engagement  which  presses,  and  only  looked  in  at  Lemer- 
cier's  for  a  moment,  seeing  the  light  at  his  windows.  Per- 
mit me  to  hope  that  our  acquaintance  will  not  drop,  and 
inform  me  where  I  may  have  the  honour  to  call  on  you." 

"Nay,"  said  the  Marquis;  "  I  claim  the  right  of  a  native  to 
pay  my  respects  first  to  the  foreigner  who  visits  our  capital, 
and, "  he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "  who  speaks  so  nobly  of  those 
who  revere  its  exiles." 

The  Englishman  saluted,  and  walked  slowly  towards  the 
door;  but  on  reaching  the  threshold  turned  back  and  made  a 
sign  to  Lemercier,  unperceived  by  Alain. 

Frederic  understood  the  sign,  and  followed  Graham  Vane 
into  the  adjoining  room,  closing  the  door  as  he  passed. 

"My  dear  Lemercier,  of  course  I  should  not  have  intruded 
on  you  at  this  hour  on  a  mere  visit  of  ceremony.  I  called 
to  say  that  the  Mademoiselle  Duval  whose  address  you  sent 
me  is  not  the  right  one,  —  not  the  lady  whom,  knowing  yoiir 
wide  range  of  acquaintance,  I  asked  you  to  aid  me  in  finding 
out." 

"Not  the  right  Duval?  Diable!  she  answered  your  de- 
scription exactly. " 

"Not  at  all." 

"You  said  she  was  very  pretty  and  young, — under  twenty." 


16  THE  PARISIANS. 

"You  forgot  that  I  said  she  deserved  that  description 
twenty-one  years  ago." 

"Ah,  so  you  did;  but  some  ladies  are  always  young.  'Age,' 
says  a  wit  in  the  '  Figaro, '  '  is  a  river  which  the  women  com- 
pel to  reascend  to  its  source  when  it  has  flowed  onward  more 
than  twenty  years.'  Never  mind:  soyez  tranquille ;  I  will 
find  your  Duval  yet  if  she  is  to  be  found.  But  why  could  not 
the  friend  who  commissioned  you  to  inquire  choose  a  name 
less  common?  Duval!  every  street  in  Paris  has  a  shop-door 
over  which  is  inscribed  the  name  of  Duval." 

"Quite  true,  there  is  the  difficulty;  however,  my  dear  Le- 
mercier,  pray  continue  to  look  out  for  a  Louise  Duval  who 
was  young  and  pretty  twenty-one  years  ago :  this  search  ought 
to  interest  me  more  than  that  which  I  entrusted  to  you  to- 
night, respecting  the  pearly-robed  lady;  for  in  the  last  I  but 
gratify  my  own  whim,  in  the  first  I  discharge  a  promise  to  a 
friend.  You,  so  perfect  a  Frenchman,  know  the  difference; 
honour  is  engaged  to  the  first.  Be  sure  you  let  me  know  if 
you  find  any  other  Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval;  and  of 
course  you  remember  your  promise  not  to  mention  to  any 
one  the  commission  of  inquiry  you  so  kindly  undertake.  I 
congratulate  you  on  your  friendship  for  M.  de  Kochebriant. 
What  a  noble  countenance  and  manner ! " 

Lemercier  returned  to  the  Marquis.  "Such  a  pity  you 
can't  dine  with  us  to-morrow.  I  fear  you  made  but  a  poor 
dinner  to-day.  But  it  is  always  better  to  arrange  the  menu 
beforehand.  I  will  send  to  Philippe's  to-morrow.  Do  not 
be  afraid." 

The  Marquis  paused  a  moment,  and  on  his  young  face  a 
proud  struggle  was  visible.  At  last  he  said,  bluntly  and 
manfully, — 

"  My  dear  Frederic,  your  world  and  mine  are  not  and  can- 
not be  the  same.  Why  should  I  be  ashamed  to  own  to  my 
old  schoolfellow  that  I  am  poor, — very  poor;  that  the  dinner 
I  have  shared  with  you  to-day  is  to  me  a  criminal  extrava- 
gance? I  lodge  in  a  single  chamber  on  the  fourth  story;  I 
dine  off  a  single  plat  at  a  small  restaurateur's  ;  the  utmost  in- 
come I  can  allow  to  myself  does  not  exceed  five  thousand  francs 


THE  PARISIANS.  17 

a  year :  my  fortunes  I  cannot  hope  much  to  improve.  In  his 
own  country  Alain  de  Rochebriant  has  no  career." 

Lemercier  was  so  astonished  by  this  confession  that  he  re- 
mained for  some  moments  silent,  eyes  and  mouth  both  wide 
open ;  at  length  he  sprang  up,  embraced  his  friend  well-nigh 
sobbing,  and  exclaimed,  "  Tant  mieux  pour  moi  !  You  must 
take  your  lodging  with  me.  I  have  a  charming  bedroom  to 
spare.  Don't  say  no.  It  will  raise  my  own  position  to  say 
'I  and  Rochebriant  keep  house  together.'  It  must  be  so. 
Come  here  to-morrow.  As  for  not  having  a  career, — bah! 
I  and  Duplessis  will  settle  that.  You  shall  be  a  millionnaire 
in  two  years.  Meanwhile  we  will  join  capitals :  I  my  paltry 
notes,  you  your  grand  name.  Settled !  " 

"My  dear,  dear  Frederic,"  said  the  young  noble,  deeply 
affected,  "  on  reflection  you  will  see  what  you  propose  is  im- 
possible. Poor  I  may  be  without  dishonour;  live  at  another 
man's  cost  I  cannot  do  without  baseness.  It  does  not  require 
to  be  gentilhomme  to  feel  that :  it  is  enough  to  be  a  French- 
man. Come  and  see  me  when  you  can  spare  the  time.  There 
is  my  address.  You  are  the  only  man  in  Paris  to  whom  I 
shall  be  at  home.  Au  revoir."  And  breaking  away  from 
Lemercier's  clasp,  the  Marquis  hurried  off. 


CHAPTER   III. 

ALAIN  reached  the  house  in  which  he  lodged.  Externally 
a  fine  house,  it  had  been  the  hotel  of  a  great  family  in  the  old 
regime.  On  the  first  floor  were  still  superb  apartments,  with 
ceilings  painted  by  Le  Brun,  with  walls  on  which  the  thick 
silks  still  seemed  fresh.  These  rooms  were  occupied  by  a 
rich  agent  de  change ;  but,  like  all  such  ancient  palaces,  the 
upper  stories  were  wretchedly  defective  even  in  the  comforts 
which  poor  men  demand  nowadays :  a  back  staircase,  narrow, 
dirty,  never  lighted,  dark  as  Erebus,  led  to  the  room  occupied 

VOL.  i.  —  2 


18  THE  PARISIANS. 

by  the  Marquis,  which  might  be  naturally  occupied  by  a 
needy  student  or  a  virtuous  grisette.  But  there  was  to  him  a 
charm  in  that  old  hotel,  and  the  richest  locataire  therein  was 
not  treated  with  a  respect  so  ceremonious  as  that  which  at- 
tended the  lodger  on  the  fourth  story.  The  porter  and  his 
wife  were  Bretons;  they  came  from  the  village  of  Roche- 
briant;  they  had  known  Alain's  parents  in  their  young  days; 
it  was  their  kinsman  who  had  recommended  him  to  the  hotel 
which  they  served :  so,  when  he  paused  at  the  lodge  for  his 
key,  which  he  had  left  there,  the  porter's  wife  was  in  waiting 
for  his  return,  and  insisted  on  lighting  him  upstairs  and  see- 
ing to  his  fire,  for  after  a  warm  day  the  night  had  turned  to 
that  sharp  biting  cold  which  is  more  trying  in  Paris  than 
even  in  London. 

The  old  woman,  running  up  the  stairs  before  him,  opened 
the  door  of  his  room,  and  busied  herself  at  the  fire.  "  Gently, 
my  good  Marthe,"  said  he,  "that  log  suffices.  I  have  been 
extravagant  to-day,  and  must  pinch  for  it." 

"M.  le  Marquis  jests,"  said  the  old  woman,  laughing. 

"No,  Marthe;  I  am  serious.  I  have  sinned,  but  I  shall  re- 
form. Entre  nous,  my  dear  friend,  Paris  is  very  dear  when 
one  sets  one's  foot  out  of  doors:  I  must  soon  go  back  to 
Rochebriant." 

"  When  M.  le  Marquis  goes  back  to  Rochebriant  he  must 
take  with  him  a  Madame  la  Marquise, —  some  pretty  angel 
with  a  suitable  dot." 

"A  dot  suitable  to  the  ruins  of  Rochebriant  would  not 
suffice  to  repair  them,  Marthe:  give  me  my  dressing-gown, 
and  good-night." 

"  Bon  repos,  M.  le  Marquis !  beaux  reves,  et  bel  aveuir. " 

"  Bel  avenir !  "  murmured  the  young  man,  bitterly,  leaning 
his  cheek  on  his  hand ;  "  what  fortune  fairer  than  the  present 
can  be  mine?  yet  inaction  in  youth  is  more  keenly  felt  than 
in  age.  How  lightly  I  should  endure  poverty  if  it  brought 
poverty's  ennobling  companion,  Labour, —  denied  to  me! 
Well,  well;  I  must  go  back  to  the  old  rock:  on  this  ocean 
there  is  no  sail,  not  even  an  oar,  for  me." 

Alain  de  Rochebriant  had  not  been  reared  to  the  expecta- 


THE  PARISIANS.  19 

tion  of  poverty.  The  only  son  of  a  father  whose  estates  were 
large  beyond  those  of  most  nobles  in  modern  France,  his  des- 
tined heritage  seemed  not  unsuitable  to  his  illustrious  birth. 
Educated  at  a  provincial  academy,  he  had  been  removed  at 
the  age  of  sixteen  to  Rochebriant,  and  lived  there  simply  and 
lonelily  enough,  but  still  in  a  sort  of  feudal  state,  with  an 
aunt,  an  elder  and  unmarried  sister  to  his  father. 

His  father  he  never  saw  but  twice  after  leaving  college. 
That  brilliant  seigneur  visited  France  but  rarely,  for  very 
brief  intervals,  residing  wholly  abroad.  To  him  went  all  the 
revenues  of  Rochebriant  save  what  sufficed  for  the  menage  of 
his  son  and  his  sister.  It  was  the  cherished  belief  of  these 
two  loyal  natures  that  the  Marquis  secretly  devoted  his  for- 
tune to  the  cause  of  the  Bourbons;  how,  they  knew  not, 
though  they  often  amused  themselves  by  conjecturing:  and 
the  young  man,  as  he  grew  up,  nursed  the  hope  that  he 
should  soon  hear  that  the  descendant  of  Henri  Quatre  had 
crossed  the  frontier  on  a  white  charger  and  hoisted  the  old 
gonfalon  with  its  fleur-de-lis.  Then,  indeed,  his  own  career 
would  be  opened,  and  the  sword  of  the  Kerouecs  drawn  from 
its  sheath.  Day  after  day  he  expected  to  hear  of  revolts,  of 
which  his  noble  father  was  doubtless  the  soul.  But  the  Mar- 
quis, though  a  sincere  Legitimist,  was  by  no  means  an  enthu- 
siastic fanatic.  He  was  simply  a  very  proud,  a  very  polished, 
a  very  luxurious,  and,  though  not  without  the  kindliness  and 
generosity  which  were  common  attributes  of  the  old  French 
noblesse,  a  very  selfish  grand  seigneur. 

Losing  his  wife  (who  died  the  first  year  of  marriage  in  giv- 
ing birth  to  Alain)  while  he  was  yet  very  young,  he  had 
lived  a  frank  libertine  life  until  he  fell  submissive  under  the 
despotic  yoke  of  a  Russian  Princess,  who,  for  some  mysteri- 
ous reason,  never  visited  her  own  country  and  obstinately  re- 
fused to  reside  in  France.  She  was  fond  of  travel,  and  moved 
yearly  from  London  to  Naples,  Naples  to  Vienna,  Berlin, 
Madrid,  Seville,  Carlsbad,  Baden-Baden, —  anywhere  for  ca- 
price or  change,  except  Paris.  This  fair  wanderer  succeeded 
in  chaining  to  herself  the  heart  and  the  steps  of  the  Marquis 
de  Rochebriant. 


20  THE  PARISIANS. 

She  was  very  rich;  she  lived  semi-royally.  Hers  was  just 
the  house  in  which  it  suited  the  Marquis  to  be  the  enfant 
gate.  I  suspect  that,  cat-like,  his  attachment  was  rather  to 
the  house  than  to  the  person  of  his  mistress.  Not  that  he 
was  domiciled  with  the  Princess ;  that  would  have  been  some- 
what too  much  against  the  proprieties,  greatly  too  much 
against  the  Marquis's  notions  of  his  own  dignity.  He  had  his 
own  carriage,  his  own  apartments,  his  own  suite,  as  became 
so  grand  a  seigneur  and  the  lover  of  so  grand  a  dame.  His 
estates,  mortgaged  before  he  came  to  them,  yielded  no  income 
sufficient  for  his  wants ;  he  mortgaged  deeper  and  deeper,  year 
after  year,  till  he  could  mortgage  them  no  more.  He  sold  his 
hotel  at  Paris;  he  accepted  without  scruple  his  sister's  for- 
tune ;  he  borrowed  with  equal  sang  froid  the  two  hundred 
thousand  francs  which  his  son  on  coming  of  age  inherited 
from  his  mother.  Alain  yielded  that  fortune  to  him  without 
a  murmur,  —  nay,  with  pride;  he  thought  it  destined  to  go 
towards  raising  a  regiment  for  the  fleur-de-lis. 

To  do  the  Marquis  justice,  he  was  fully  persuaded  that  he 
should  shortly  restore  to  his  sister  and  son  what  he  so  reck- 
lessly took  from  them.  He  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  his 
Princess  so  soon  as  her  own  husband  died.  She  had  been 
separated  from  the  Prince  for  many  years,  and  every  year  it 
was  said  he  could  not  last  a  year  longer.  But  he  completed 
the  measure  of  his  conjugal  iniquities  by  continuing  to  live; 
and  one  day,  by  mistake,  Death  robbed  the  lady  of  the  Mar- 
quis instead  of  the  Prince. 

This  was  an  accident  which  the  Marquis  had  never  counted 
upon.  He  was  still  young  enough  to  consider  himself  young; 
in  fact,  one  principal  reason  for  keeping  Alain  secluded  in 
Bertagne  was  his  reluctance  to  introduce  into  the  world  a  son 
"as  old  as  myself"  he  would  say  pathetically.  The  news  of 
his  death,  which  happened  at  Baden  after  a  short  attack  of 
bronchitis  caught  in  a  supper  al  fresco  at  the  old  castle,  was 
duly  transmitted  to  Rochebriant  by  the  Princess;  and  the 
shock  to  Alain  and  his  aunt  was  the  greater  because  they  had 
seen  so  little  of  the  departed  that  they  regarded  him  as  a  he- 
roic myth,  an  impersonation  of  ancient  chivalry,  condemning 


THE   PARISIANS.  21 

himself  to  voluntary  exile  rather  than  do  homage  to  usurpers. 
But  from  their  grief  they  were  soon  roused  by  the  terrible 
doubt  whether  Rochebriant  could  still  be  retained  in  the  fam- 
ily. Besides  the  mortgagees,  creditors  from  half  the  capitals 
in  Europe  sent  in  their  claims;  and  all  the  movable  effects 
transmitted  to  Alain  by  his  father's  confidential  Italian  valet, 
except  sundry  carriages  and  horses  which  were  sold  at  Baden 
for  what  they  would  fetch,  were  a  magnificent  dressing-case, 
in  the  secret  drawer  of  which  were  some  bank-notes  amount- 
ing to  thirty  thousand  francs,  and  three  large  boxes  contain- 
ing the  Marquis's  correspondence,  a  few  miniature  female 
portraits,  and  a  great  many  locks  of  hair. 

Wholly  unprepared  for  the  ruin  that  stared  him  in  the 
face,  the  young  Marquis  evinced  the  natural  strength  of  his 
character  by  the  calmness  with  which  he  met  the  danger,  and 
the  intelligence  with  which  he  calculated  and  reduced  it. 

By  the  help  of  the  family  notary  in  the  neighbouring  town, 
he  made  himself  master  of  his  liabilities  and  his  means ;  and 
he  found  that,  after  paying  all  debts  and  providing  for  the 
interest  of  the  mortgages,  a  property  which  ought  to  have  re- 
alized a  rental  of  £10,000  a  year  yielded  not  more  than 
£400.  Nor  was  even  this  margin  safe,  nor  the  property  out 
of  peril ;  for  the  principal  mortgagee,  who  was  a  capitalist  in 
Paris  named  Louvier,  having  had  during  the  life  of  the  late 
Marquis  more  than  once  to  wait  for  his  half-yearly  interest 
longer  than  suited  his  patience, —  and  his  patience  was  not 
enduring,  —  plainly  declared  that  if  the  same  delay  recurred 
he  should  put  his  right  of  seizure  in  force;  and  in  France 
still  more  than  in  England,  bad  seasons  seriously  affect  the 
security  of  rents.  To  pay  away  £9,600  a  year  regularly  out 
of  £10,000,  with  the  penalty  of  forfeiting  the  whole  if  not 
paid,  —  whether  crops  may  fail,  farmers  procrastinate,  and 
timber  fall  in  price, —  is  to  live  with  the  sword  of  Damocles 
over  one's  head. 

For  two  years  and  more,  however,  Alain  met  his  difficulties 
with  prudence  and  vigour;  he  retrenched  the  establishment 
hitherto  kept  at  the  chateau,  resigned  such  rural  pleasures 
as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  indulge,  and  lived  like  one  of 


22  THE  PARISIANS. 

his  petty  farmers.  But  the  risks  of  the  future  remained 
undiminished. 

"There  is  but  one  way,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  the 
family  notary,  M.  Hubert,  "  by  which  you  can  put  your  estate 
in  comparative  safety.  Your  father  raised  his  mortgages 
from  time  to  time,  as  he  wanted  money,  and  often  at  interest 
above  the  average  market  interest.  You  may  add  considera- 
bly to  your  income  by  consolidating  all  these  mortgages  into 
one  at  a  lower  percentage,  and  in  so  doing  pay  off  this  for- 
midable mortgagee,  M.  Louvier,  who,  I  shrewdly  suspect,  is 
bent  upon  becoming  the  proprietor  of  Kochebriant.  Unfor- 
tunately those  few  portions  of  your  land  which  were  but 
lightly  charged,  and,  lying  contiguous  to  small  proprietors, 
were  coveted  by  them,  and  could  be  advantageously  sold,  are 
already  gone  to  pay  the  debts  of  Monsieur  the  late  Marquis. 
There  are,  however,  two  small  farms  which,  bordering  close 
on  the  town  of  S ,  I  think  I  could  dispose  of  for  build- 
ing purposes  at  high  rates;  but  these  lands  are  covered  by 
M.  Louvier's  general  mortgage,  and  he  has  refused  to  re- 
lease them,  unless  the  whole  debt  be  paid.  Were  that  debt 
therefore  transferred  to  another  mortgagee,  we  might  stipu- 
late for  their  exception,  and  in  so  doing  secure  a  sum  of 
more  than  100,000  francs,  which  you  could  keep  in  reserve 
for  a  pressing  or  unforeseen  occasion,  and  make  the  nucleus 
of  a  capital  devoted  to  the  gradual  liquidation  of  the  charges 
on  the  estate.  For  with  a  little  capital,  Monsieur  le  Marquis, 
your  rent-roll  might  be  very  greatly  increased,  the  forests 

and  orchards  improved,  those  meadows  round  S drained 

and  irrigated.  Agriculture  is  beginning  to  be  understood  in 
Bretagne,  and  your  estate  would  soon  double  its  value  in  the 
hands  of  a  spirited  capitalist.  My  advice  to  you,  therefore, 
is  to  go  to  Paris,  employ  a  good  avoud,  practised  in  such 
branch  of  his  profession,  to  negotiate  the  consolidation  of 
your  mortgages  upon  terms  that  will  enable  you  to  sell  out- 
lying portions,  and  so  pay  off  the  charge  by  instalments 
agreed  upon;  to  see  if  some  safe  company  or  rich  individual 
can  be  found  to  undertake  for  a  term  of  years  the  manage- 
ment of  your  forests,  the  draining  of  the  S meadows,  the 


THE  PARISIANS.  23 

superintendence  of  your  fisheries,  etc.  They,  it  is  true,  will 
monopolize  the  profits  for  many  years, —  perhaps  twenty;  but 
you  are  a  young  man :  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  will  re- 
enter  on  your  estate  with  a  rental  so  improved  that  the  mort- 
gages, now  so  awful,  will  seem  to  you  comparatively  trivial." 

In  pursuance  of  this  advice,  the  young  Marquis  had  come 
to  Paris  fortified  with  a  letter  from  M.  Hebert  to  an  avou6  of 
eminence,  and  with  many  letters  from  his  aunt  to  the  nobles 
of  the  Faubourg  connected  with  his  house.  Now  one  reason 
why  M.  Hebert  had  urged  his  client  to  undertake  this  im- 
portant business  in  person,  rather  than  volunteer  his  own  ser- 
vices in  Paris,  was  somewhat  extra-professional.  He  had  a 
sincere  and  profound  affection  for  Alain;  he  felt  compassion 
for  chat  young  life  so  barrenly  wasted  in  seclusion  and  severe 
privations ;  he  respected,  but  was  too  practical  a  man  of  busi- 
ness to  share,  those  chivalrous  sentiments  of  loyalty  to  an 
exiled  dynasty  which  disqualified  the  man  for  the  age  he 
lived  in,  and,  if  not  greatly  modified,  would  cut  him  off  from 
the  hopes  and  aspirations  of  his  eager  generation.  He 
thought  plausibly  enough  that  the  air  of  the  grand  metropolis 
was  necessary  to  the  mental  health,  enfeebled  and  withering 
amidst  the  feudal  mists  of  Bretagne ;  that  once  in  Paris,  Alain 
would  imbibe  the  ideas  of  Paris,  adapt  himself  to  some  career 
leading  to  honour  and  to  fortune,  for  which  he  took  facilities 
from  his  high  birth,  an  historical  name  too  national  for  any 
dynasty  not  to  welcome  among  its  adherents,  and  an  intellect 
not  yet  sharpened  by  contact  and  competition  with  others, 
but  in  itself  vigorous,  habituated  to  thought,  and  vivified  by 
the  noble  aspirations  which  belong  to  imaginative  natures. 

At  the  least,  Alain  would  be  at  Paris  in  the  social  position 
which  would  afford  him  the  opportunities  of  a  marriage,  in 
which  his  birth  and  rank  would  be  readily  accepted  as  an 
equivalent  to  some  ample  fortune  that  would  serve  to  redeem 
the  endangered  seigneuries.  He  therefore  warned  Alain  that 
the  affair  for  which  he  went  to  Paris  might  be  tedious,  that 
lawyers  were  always  slow,  and  advised  him  to  calculate  on 
remaining  several  months,  perhaps  a  year;  delicately  suggest- 
ing that  his  rearing  hitherto  had  been  too  secluded  for  his 


24  THE  PARISIANS. 

age  and  rank,  and  that  a  year  at  Paris,  even  if  he  failed  in 
the  object  which  took  him  there,  would  not  be  thrown  away 
in  the  knowledge  of  men  and  things  that  would  fit  him  better 
to  grapple  with  his  difficulties  on  his  return. 

Alain  divided  his  spare  income  between  his  aunt  and  him- 
self, and  had  come  to  Paris  resolutely  determined  to  live 
within  the  £200  a  year  which  remained  to  his  share.  He 
felt  the  revolution  in  his  whole  being  that  commenced  when 
out  of  sight  of  the  petty  principality  in  which  he  was  the  ob- 
ject of  that  feudal  reverence,  still  surviving  in  the  more  un- 
frequented parts  of  Bretagne,  for  the  representatives  of 
illustrious  names  connected  with  the  immemorial  legends  of 
the  province. 

The  very  bustle  of  a  railway,  with  its  crowd  and  quickness 
and  unceremonious  democracy  of  travel,  served  to  pain  and 
cenfound  and  humiliate  that  sense  of  individual  dignity  in 
which  he  had  been  nurtured.  He  felt  that,  once  away  from 
Rochebriant,  he  was  but  a  cipher  in  the  sum  of  human  beings. 
Arrived  at  Paris,  and  reaching  the  gloomy  hotel  to  which  he 
had  been  recommended,  he  greeted  even  the  desolation  of 
that  solitude  which  is  usually  so  oppressive  to  a  stranger  in 
the  metropolis  of  his  native  land.  Loneliness  was  better 
than  the  loss  of  self  in  the  reek  and  pressure  of  an  unfamiliar 
throng.  For  the  first  few  days  he  had  wandered  over  Paris 
without  calling  even  on  the  avou6  to  whom  M.  Hebert  had 
directed  him.  He  felt  with  the  instinctive  acuteness  of  a 
mind  which,  under  sounder  training,  would  have  achieved  no 
mean  distinction,  that  it  was  a  safe  precaution  to  imbue  him- 
self with  the  atmosphere  of  the  place,  and  seize  on  those  gen- 
eral ideas  which  in  great  capitals  are  so  contagious  that  they 
are  often  more  accurately  caught  by  the  first  impressions  than 
by  subsequent  habit,  before  he  brought  his  mind  into  colli- 
sion with  those  of  the  individuals  he  had  practically  to  deal 
with. 

At  last  he  repaired  to  the  avou6,  M.  Gandrin,  Eue  St.  Flor- 
entin.  He  had  mechanically  formed  his  idea  of  the  abode 
and  person  of  an  avou£  from  his  association  with  M.  Hebert. 
He  expected  to  find  a  dull  house  in  a  dull  street  near  the  cen- 


THE  PARISIANS.  25 

tre  of  business,  remote  from  the  haunts  of  idlers,  and  a  grave 
man  of  unpretending  exterior  and  matured  years. 

He  arrived  at  a  hotel  newly  fronted,  richly  decorated,  in 
the  fashionable  quartier  close  by  the  Tuileries.  He  entered  a 
wide  porte  cochere,  and  was  directed  by  the  concierge  to  mount 
au  premier.  There,  first  detained  in  an  office  faultlessly  neat, 
with  spruce  young  men  at  smart  desks,  he  was  at  length  ad- 
mitted into  a  noble  salon,  and  into  the  presence  of  a  gentle- 
man lounging  in  an  easy-chair  before  a  magnificent  bureau  of 
marqueterie,  genre  Louis  Seize,  engaged  in  patting  a  white 
curly  lapdog,  with  a  pointed  nose  and  a  shrill  bark. 

The  gentleman  rose  politely  on  his  entrance,  and  released 
the  dog,  who,  after  sniffing  the  Marquis,  condescended  not 
to  bite. 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  M.  Gandrin,  glancing  at  the 
card  and  the  introductory  note  from  M.  Hebert,  which  Alaia 
had  sent  in,  and  which  lay  on  the  secretaire  beside  heaps  of 
letters  nicely  arranged  and  labelled,  "charmed  to  make  the 
honour  of  your  acquaintance;  just  arrived  at  Paris?  So  M. 
Hebert  —  a  very  worthy  person  whom  I  have  never  seen,  but 
with  whom  I  have  had  correspondence  —  tells  me  you  wish 
for  my  advice;  in  fact,  he  wrote  to  me  some  days  ago,  men- 
tioning the  business  in  question, —  consolidation  of  mortgages. 
A  very  large  sum  wanted,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  and  not  to  be 
had  easily." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Alain,  quietly,  "I  should  imagine 
that  there  must  be  many  capitalists  in  Paris  willing  to  invest 
in  good  securities  at  fair  interest." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Marquis;  very  few  such  capitalists. 
Men  worth  money  nowadays  like  quick  returns  and  large 
profits,  thanks  to  the  magnificent  system  of  Credit  Mobilier, 
in  which,  as  you  are  aware,  a  man  may  place  his  money  in 
any  trade  or  speculation  without  liabilities  beyond  his  share. 
Capitalists  are  nearly  all  traders  or  speculators." 

"Then,"  said  the  Marquis,  half  rising,  "I  am  to  presume, 
sir,  that  you  are  not  likely  to  assist  me." 

"No,  I  don't  say  that,  Marquis.  I  will  look  with  care  into 
the  matter.  Doubtless  you  have  with  you  an  abstract  of  the 


26  THE  PARISIANS. 

necessary  documents,  the  conditions  of  the  present  mortgages, 
the  rental  of  the  estate,  its  probable  prospects,  and  so  forth." 

"Sir,  I  have  such  an  abstract  with  me  at  Paris;  and  having 
gone  into  it  myself  with  M.  Hebert,  I  can  pledge  you  my 
word  that  it  is  strictly  faithful  to  the  facts." 

The  Marquis  said  this  with  naive  simplicity,  as  if  his  word 
were  quite  sufficient  to  set  that  part  of  the  question  at  rest. 

M.  Gandrin  smiled  politely  and  said,  "Eh  bien,  M.  le  Mar- 
quis :  favour  me  with  the  abstract;  in  a  week's  time  you  shall 
have  my  opinion.  You  enjoy  Paris?  Greatly  improved  under 
the  Emperor.  A  propos,  Madame  Gandrin  receives  to-morrow 
evening;  allow  me  that  opportunity  to  present  you  to  her." 

Unprepared  for  the  proffered  hospitality,  the  Marquis  had 
no  option  but  to  murmur  his  gratification  and  assent. 

In  a  minute  more  he  was  in  the  streets.  The  next  evening 
he  went  to  Madame  Gandrin's, —  a  brilliant  reception, —  a 
whole  moving  flower-bed  of  "decorations"  there.  Having 
gone  through  the  ceremony  of  presentation  to  Madame  Gan- 
drin,—  a  handsome  woman  dressed  to  perfection,  and  convers- 
ing with  the  secretary  to  an  embassy,  —  the  young  noble 
ensconced  himself  in  an  obscure  and  quiet  corner,  observing 
all  and  imagining  that  he  escaped  observation.  And  as  the 
young  men  of  his  own  years  glided  by  him,  or  as  their  talk 
reached  his  ears,  he  became  aware  that  from  top  to  toe, 
within  and  without,  he  was  old-fashioned,  obsolete,  not  of 
his  race,  not  of  his  day.  His  rank  itself  seemed  to  him  a 
waste-paper  title-deed  to  a  heritage  long  lapsed.  Not  thus 
the  princely  seigneurs  of  Rochebriant  made  their  debut  at  the' 
capital  of  their  nation.  They  had  had  the  entree  to  the  cab- 
inets of  their  kings ;  they  had  glittered  in  the  halls  of  Ver- 
sailles ;  they  had  held  high  posts  of  distinction  in  court  and 
camp ;  the  great  Order  of  St.  Louis  had  seemed  their  heredi- 
tary appanage.  His  father,  though  a  voluntary  exile  in  man- 
hood, had  been  in  childhood  a  king's  page,  and  throughout 
life  remained  the  associate  of  princes;  and  here,  in  an  avoue's 
soiree,  unknown,  unregarded,  an  expectant  on  an  avoue's 
patronage,  stood  the  last  lord  of  Rochebriant. 

It  is  easy  to  conceive  that  Alain  did  not  stay  long.     But  he 


THE  PARISIANS.  27 

stayed  long  enough  to  convince  him  that  on  £200  a  year  the 
polite  society  of  Paris,  even  as  seen  at  M.  Gandrin's,  was 
not  for  him.  Nevertheless,  a  day  or  two  after,  he  resolved 
to  call  upon  the  nearest  of  his  kinsmen  to  whom  his  aunt  had 
given  him  letters.  With  the  Count  de  Vandemar,  one  of  his 
fellow-nobles  of  the  sacred  Faubourg,  he  should  be  no  less 
Kochebriant,  whether  in  a  garret  or  a  palace.  The  Vande- 
mars,  in  fact,  though  for  many  generations  before  the  First 
Revolution  a  puissant  and  brilliant  family,  had  always  recog- 
nized the  Rochebriants  as  the  head  of  their  house, — the 
trunk  from  which  they  had  been  slipped  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  when  a  younger  son  of  the  Rochebriants  mar- 
ried a  wealthy  heiress  and  took  the  title  with  the  lands 
of  Vandemar. 

Since  then  the  two  families  had  often  intermarried.  The 
present  count  had  a  reputation  for  ability,  was  himself  a  large 
proprietor,  and  might  furnish  advice  to  guide  Alain  in  his 
negotiations  with  M.  Gandrin.  The  Hotel  de  Vandemar 
stood  facing  the  old  Hotel  de  Rochebriant;  it  was  less  spa- 
cious, but  not  less  venerable,  gloomy,  and  prison-like. 

As  he  turned  his  eyes  from  the  armorial  scutcheon  which 
still  rested,  though  chipped  and  mouldering,  over  the  portals 
of  his  lost  ancestral  house,  and  was  about  to  cross  the  street, 
two  young  men,  who  seemed  two  or  three  years  older  than 
himself,  emerged  on  horseback  from  the  Hotel  de  Vandemar. 

Handsome  young  men,  with  the  lofty  look  of  the  old  race, 
dressed  with  the  punctilious  care  of  person  which  is  not  fop- 
pery in  men  of  birth,  but  seems  part  of  the  self-respect  that 
appertains  to  the  old  chivalric  point  of  honour.  The  horse 
of  one  of  these  cavaliers  made  a  caracole  which  brought  it 
nearly  upon  Alain  as  he  was  about  to  cross.  The  rider, 
checking  his  steed,  lifted  his  hat  to  Alain  and  uttered  a  word 
of  apology  in  the  courtesy  of  ancient  high-breeding,  but  still 
with  condescension  as  to  an  inferior.  This  little  incident, 
and  the  slighting  kind  of  notice  received  from  coevals  of  his 
own  birth,  and  doubtless  his  own  blood, — for  he  divined  truly 
that  they  were  the  sons  of  the  Count  de  Vandemar, — discon- 
certed Alain  to  a  degree  which  perhaps  a  Frenchman  alone 


28  THE  PARISIANS. 

can  comprehend.  He  had  even  half  a  mind  to  give  up  his 
visit  and  turn  back.  However,  his  native  manhood  prevailed 
over  that  morbid  sensitiveness  which,  born  out  of  the  union 
of  pride  and  poverty,  has  all  the  effects  of  vanity,  and  yet  is 
not  vanity  itself. 

The  Count  was  at  home,  a  thin  spare  man  with  a  narrow 
but  high  forehead,  and  an  expression  of  countenance  keen, 
severe,  and  un  peu  moqueuse. 

He  received  the  Marquis,  however,  at  first  with  great  cor- 
diality, kissed  him  on  both  sides  of  his  cheek,  called  him 
"cousin,"  expressed  immeasurable  regret  that  the  Countess 
was  gone  out  on  one  of  the  missions  of  charity  in  which  the 
great  ladies  of  the  Faubourg  religiously  interest  themselves, 
and  that  his  sons  had  just  ridden  forth  to  the  Bois. 

As  Alain,  however,  proceeded,  simply  and  without  false 
shame,  to  communicate  the  object  of  his  visit  at  Paris,  the 
extent  of  his  liabilities,  and  the  penury  of  his  means,  the 
smile  vanished  from  the  Count's  face.  He  somewhat  drew 
back  his  fauteuil  in  the  movement  common  to  men  who  wish 
to  estrange  themselves  from  some  other  man's  difficulties; 
and  when  Alain  came  to  a  close,  the  Count  remained  some 
moments  seized  with  a  slight  cough-,  and,  gazing  intently 
on  the  carpet,  at  length  he  said,  "My  dear  young  friend, 
your  father  behaved  extremely  ill  to  you, —  dishonourably, 
fraudulently. " 

"  Hold !  "  said  the  Marquis,  colouring  high.  "  Those  are 
words  no  man  can  apply  to  my  father  in  my  presence." 

The  Count  stared,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied  with 
sang  froid, — 

"Marquis,  if  you  are  contented  with  your  father's  conduct, 
of  course  it  is  no  business  of  mine :  he  never  injured  me.  I 
presume,  however,  that,  considering  my  years  and  my  charac- 
ter, you  come  to  me  for  advice:  is  it  so?" 

Alain  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 

"There  are  four  courses  for  one  in  your  position  to  take," 
said  the  Count,  placing  the  index  of  the  right  hand  succes- 
sively on  the  thumb  and  three  fingers  of  the  left, —  "four 
courses,  and  no  more. 


THE  PARISIANS.  29 

"First.  To  do  as  your  notary  recommended:  consolidate 
your  mortgages,  patch  up  your  income  as  you  best  can,  return 
to  Rochebriant,  and  devote  the  rest  of  your  existence  to  the 
preservation  of  your  property.  By  that  course  your  life  will 
be  one  of  permanent  privation,  severe  struggle ;  and  the  prob- 
ability is  that  you  will  not  succeed:  there  will  come  one  or 
two  bad  seasons,  the  farmers  will  fail  to  pay,  the  mortgagee 
will  foreclose,  and  you  may  find  yourself,  after  twenty  years 
of  anxiety  and  torment,  prematurely  old  and  without  a  sou. 

"Course  the  second.  Rochebriant,  though  so  heavily  in- 
cumbered  as  to  yield  you  some  such  income  as  your  father  gave 
to  his  chef  de  cuisine,  is  still  one  of  those  superb  terres  which 
bankers  and  Jews  and  stock-jobbers  court  and  hunt  after,  for 
which  they  will  give  enormous  sums.  If  you  place  it  in  good 
hands,  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  could  dispose  of  the  property 
within  three  months,  on  terms  that  would  leave  you  a  consid- 
erable surplus,  which,  invested  with  judgment,  would  afford 
you  whereon  you  could  live  at  Paris  in  a  way  suitable  to  your 
rank  and  age.  Need  we  go  further?  —  does  this  course  smile 
to  you?" 

"  Pass  on,  Count ;  I  will  defend  to  the  last  what  I  take  from 
my  ancestors,  and  cannot  voluntarily  sell  their  roof -tree  and 
their  tombs." 

"Your  name  would  still  remain,  and  you  would  be  just  as 
well  received  in  Paris,  and  your  noblesse  just  as  implicitly 
conceded,  if  all  Judaea  encamped  upon  Rochebriant.  Con- 
sider how  few  of  us  gentilshommes  of  the  old  regime  have  any 
domains  left  to  us.  Our  names  alone  survive :  no  revolution 
can  efface  them." 

"  It  may  be  so,  but  pardon  me ;  there  are  subjects  on  which 
we  cannot  reason,  —  we  can  but  feel.  Rochebriant  may  be 
torn  from  me,  but  I  cannot  yield  it." 

"I  proceed  to  the  third  course.  Keep  the  chateau  and  give 
up  its  traditions;  remain  de  facto  Marquis  of  Rochebriant, 
but  accept  the  new  order  of  things.  Make  yourself  known  to 
the  people  in  power.  They  will  be  charmed  to  welcome  you : 
a  convert  from  the  old  noblesse  is  a  guarantee  of  stability  to 
the  new  system.  You  will  be  placed  in  diplomacy;  effloresce 


30  THE  PARISIANS. 

into  an.  ambassador,  a  minister, — and  ministers  nowadays 
have  opportunities  to  become  enormously  rich." 

"That  course  is  not  less  impossible  than  the  last.  Till 
Henry  V.  formally  resign  his  right  to  the  throne  of  Saint 
Louis,  I  can  be  servant  to  no  other  man  seated  on  that 
throne." 

"Such,  too,  is  my  creed,"  said  the  Count,  "and  I  cling  to 
it;  but  my  estate  is  not  mortgaged,  and  I  have  neither  the 
tastes  nor  the  age  for  public  employments.  The  last  course 
is  perhaps  better  than  the  rest;  at  all  events  it  is  the  easiest. 
A  wealthy  marriage;  even  if  it  must  be  a  mesalliance.  I 
think  at  your  age,  with  your  appearance,  that  your  name  is 
worth  at  least  two  million  francs  in  the  eyes  of  a  rich  roturier 
with  an  ambitious  daughter." 

"  Alas !  "  said  the  young  man,  rising,  "  I  see  I  shall  have  to 
go  back  to  Rochebriant.  I  cannot  sell  my  castle,  I  cannot 
sell  my  creed,  and  I  cannot  sell  my  name  and  myself." 

"The  last  all  of  us  did  in  the  old  regime,  Marquis.  Though 
I  still  retain  the  title  of  Vandemar,  my  property  comes  from 
the  Farmer-General's  daughter,  whom  my  great-grandfather, 
happily  for  us,  married  in  the  days  of  Louis  Quinze.  Mar- 
riages with  people  of  sense  and  rank  have  always  been  marl- 
ages  de  convenance  in  France.  It  is  only  in  le  petit  monde 
that  men  having  nothing  marry  girls  having  nothing,  and  I 
don't  believe  they  are  a  bit  the  happier  for  it.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  quarrels  de  menage  leading  to  frightful  crimes 
appear  by  the  'Gazette  des  Tribunaux'  to  be  chiefly  found 
among  those  who  do  not  sell  themselves  at  the  altar." 

The  old  Count  said  this  with  a  grim  persiflage.  He  was  a 
Voltairian. 

Voltairianism,  deserted  by  the  modern  Liberals  of  France, 
has  its  chief  cultivation  nowadays  among  the  wits  of  the  old 
regime.  They  pick  up  its  light  weapons  on  the  battle-field 
on  which  their  fathers  perished,  and  re-feather  against  the 
canaille  the  shafts  which  had  been  pointed  against  the 
noblesse. 

"Adieu,  Count,"  said  Alain,  rising;  "I  do  not  thank  you 
less  for  your  advice  because  I  have  not  the  wit  to  profit  by  it." 


THE  PARISIANS.  31 

"Au  revoir,  my  cousin;  you  will  think  better  of  it  when 
you  have  been  a  month  or  two  at  Paris.  By  the  way,  my 
wife  receives  every  Wednesday;  consider  our  house  yours." 

"Count,  can  I  enter  into  the  world  which  Madame  la  Com- 
tesse  receives,  in  the  way  that  becomes  my  birth,  on  the  in- 
come I  take  from  my  fortune?" 

The  Count  hesitated.  " No, "  said  he  at  last,  frankly ;  "not 
because  you  will  be  less  welcome  or  less  respected,  but  be- 
cause I  see  that  you  have  all  the  pride  and  sensitiveness  of  a 
seigneur  de  province.  Society  would  therefore  give  you  pain, 
not  pleasure.  More  than  this,  I  know,  by  the  remembrance 
of  my  own  youth  and  the  sad  experience  of  my  own  sons,  that 
you  would  be  irresistibly  led  into  debt,  and  debt  in  your  cir- 
cumstances would  be  the  loss  of  Rochebriant.  No;  I  invite 
you  to  visit  us.  I  offer  you  the  most  select  but  not  the  most 
brilliant  circles  of  Paris,  because  my  wife  is  religious,  and 
frightens  away  the  birds  of  gay  plumage  with  the  scarecrows 
of  priests  and  bishops.  But  if  you  accept  my  invitation  and 
my  offer,  I  am  bound,  as  an  old  man  of  the  world  to  a  young 
kinsman,  to  say  that  the  chances  are  that  you  will  be  ruined." 

"I  thank  you,  Count,  for  your  candour;  and  I  now  acknowl- 
edge that  I  have  found  a  relation  and  a  guide,"  answered  the 
Marquis,  with  a  nobility  of  mien  that  was  not  without  a 
pathos  which  touched  the  hard  heart  of  the  old  man. 

"Come  at  least  whenever  you  want  a  sincere  if  a  rude 
friend;"  and  though  he  did  not  kiss  his  cousin's  cheek  this 
time,  he  gave  him,  with  more  sincerity,  a  parting  shake  of 
the  hand. 

And  these  made  the  principal  events  in  Alain's  Paris  life 
till  he  met  Frederic  Lemercier.  Hitherto  he  had  received  no 
definite  answer  from  M.  Ganclrin,  who  had  postponed  an  in- 
terview, not  having  had  leisure  to  make  himself  master  of  all 
the  details  in  the  abstract  sent  to  him. 


32  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

THE  next  day,  towards  the  afternoon,  Frederic  Lemercier, 
somewhat  breathless  from  the  rapidity  at  which  he  had  as- 
cended to  so  high  an  eminence,  burst  into  Alain's  chamber. 

"  Pr-r !  man  cher;  what  superb  exercise  for  the  health  — 
how  it  must  strengthen  the  muscles  and  expand  the  chest! 
After  this  who  should  shrink  from  scaling  Mont  Blanc? 
Well,  well.  I  have  been  meditating  on  your  business  ever 
since  we  parted.  But  I  would  fain  know  more  of  its  details. 
You  shall  confide  them  to  me  as  we  drive  through  the  Bois. 
My  coupe  is  below,  and  the  day  is  beautiful;  come." 

To  the  young  Marquis,  the  gayety,  the  heartiness  of  his 
college  friend  were  a  cordial.  How  different  from  the  dry 
counsels  of  the  Count  de  Vandemar !  Hope,  though  vaguely, 
entered  into  his  heart.  Willingly  he  accepted  Frederic's  in- 
vitation, and  the  young  men  were  soon  rapidly  borne  along 
the  Champs  Elysees.  As  briefly  as  he  could  Alain  described 
the  state  ot  his  affairs,  the  nature  of  his  mortgages,  and  the 
result  of  his  interview  with  M.  Gandrin. 

Frederic  listened  attentively.  "Then  Gandrin  has  given 
you  as  yet  no  answer?" 

"None;  but  I  have  a  note  from  him  this  morning  asking 
me  to  call  to-morrow." 

"After  you  have  seen  him,  decide  on  nothing, —  if  he 
makes  you  any  offer.  Get  back  your  abstract,  or  a  copy  of 
it,  and  confide  it  to  me.  Gandrin  ought  to  help  you;  he 
transacts  affairs  in  a  large  way.  Belle  clientele  among  the 
millionnaires.  But  his  clients  expect  fabulous  profits,  and  so 
does  he.  As  for  your  principal  mortgagee,  Louvier,  you 
know,  of  course,  who  he  is." 

"Xo,  except  that  M.  Hebert  told  me  that  he  was  very  rich." 

'Rich!  I  should  think  so;  one  of  the  Kings  of  Finance. 
Ah!  observe  those  young  men  on  horseback." 


THE  PARISIANS.  33 

Alain  looked  forth  and  recognized  the  two  cavaliers 
whom  he  had  conjectured  to  be  the  sons  of  the  Count  de 
Vandemar. 

"Those  beaux  gardens  are  fair  specimens  of  your  Faubourg," 
said  Frederic;  "they  would  decline  my  acquaintance  because 
my  grandfather  kept  a  shop,  and  they  keep  a  shop  between 
them." 

"A  shop!     I  am  mistaken,  then.     Who  are  they?" 

"  Raoul  and  Enguerrand,  sons  of  that  mocker  of  man,  the 
Count  de  Vandemar." 

"And  they  keep  a  shop!     You  are  jesting." 

"  A  shop  at  which  you  may  buy  gloves  and  perfumes,  Eue 
de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin.  Of  course  they  don't  serve  at  the 
counter;  they  only  invest  their  pocket-money  in  the  specula- 
tion; and,  in  so  doing,  treble  at  least  their  pocket-money, 
buy  their  horses,  and  keep  their  grooms." 

"Is  it  possible!  nobles  of  such  birth!  How  shocked  the 
Count  would  be  if  he  knew  it!" 

"Yes,  very  much  shocked  if  he  was  supposed  to  know  it. 
But  he  is  too  wise  a  father  not  to  give  his  sons  limited  allow- 
ances and  unlimited  liberty,  especially  the  liberty  to  add  to 
the  allowances  as  they  please.  Look  again  at  them ;  no  better 
riders  and  more  affectionate  brothers  since  the  date  of  Castor 
and  Pollux.  Their  tastes  indeed  differ-  Kaoul  is  religious 
and  moral,  melancholy  and  dignified;  Enguerrand  is  a  lion  of 
the  first  water, —  elegant  to  the  tips  of  his  nails.  These  demi- 
gods nevertheless  are  very  mild  to  mortals.  Though  Enguer- 
rand is  the  best  pistol-shot  in  Paris,  and  Raoul  the  best 
fencer,  the  first  is  so  good-tempered  that  you  would  be  a 
brute  to  quarrel  with  him,  the  last  so  true  a  Catholic,  that  if 
you  quarrelled  with  him  you  need  not  fear  his  sword.  He 
would  not  die  in  the  committal  of  what  the  Church  holds  a 
mortal  sin." 

"Are  you  speaking  ironically?  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that 
men  of  the  name  of  Vandemar  are  not  brave?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  that,  though  masters  of  their 
weapons,  they  are  too  brave  to  abuse  their  skill ;  and  I  must 
add  that,  though  they  are  sleeping  partners  in  a  shop,  they 

VOL.    I.  —  3 


34  THE  PARISIANS. 

would  not  cheat  you  of  a  farthing.  Benign  stars  on  earth,  as 
Castor  and  Pollux  were  in  heaven." 

"  But  partners  in  a  shop !  " 

"  Bah !  when  a  minister  himself,  like  the  late  M.  de  M , 

kept  a  shop,  and  added  the  profits  of  Ion  bons  to  his  revenue, 
you  may  form  some  idea  of  the  spirit  of  the  age.  If  young 
nobles  are  not  generally  sleeping  partners  in  shops,  still  they 
are  more  or  less  adventurers  in  commerce.  The  Bourse  is  the 
profession  of  those  who  have  no  other  profession.  You  have 
visited  the  Bourse  ?  " 

"No." 

"No!  this  is  just  the  hour.  We  have  time  yet  for  the 
Bois.  Coachman,  drive  to  the  Bourse." 

"The  fact  is,"  resumed  Frederic,  "that  gambling  is  one  of 
the  wants  of  civilized  men.  The  rouge-et-noir  and  roulette 
tables  are  forbidden;  the  hells  closed:  but  the  passion  for 
making  money  without  working  for  it  must  have  its  vent,  and 
that  vent  is  the  Bourse.  As  instead  of  a  hundred  wax-lights 
you  now  have  one  jet  of  gas,  so  instead  of  a  hundred  hells 
you  have  now  one  Bourse,  and  —  it  is  exceedingly  convenient; 
always  at  hand;  no  discredit  being  seen  there  as  it  was  to  be 
seen  at  Frascati's ;  on  the  contrary,  at  once  respectable,  and 
yet  the  mode." 

The  coupe  stops  at  the  Bourse,  our  friends  mount  the  steps, 
glide  through  the  pillars,  deposit  their  canes  at  a  place  des- 
tined to  guard  them,  and  the  Marquis  follows  Frederic  up 
a  flight  of  stairs  till  he  gains  the  open  gallery  round  a  vast 
hall  below.  Such  a  din !  such  a  clamour !  disputations,  wrang- 
ling, wrathful. 

Here  Lemercier  distinguished  some  friends,  whom  he  joined 
for  a  few  minutes. 

Alain  left  alone,  looked  down  into  the  hall.  He  thought 
himself  in  some  stormy  scene  of  the  First  Revolution.  An 
English  contested  election  in  the  market-place  of  a  borough 
when  the  candidates  are  running  close  on  each  other  —  the 
result  doubtful,  passions  excited,  the  whole  borough  in  civil 
war  —  is  peaceful  compared  to  the  scene  at  the  Bourse. 

Bulls  and  bears  screaming,  bawling,  gesticulating,  as  if 


THE   PARISIANS.  35 

one  were  about  to  strangle  the  other ;  the  whole,  to  an  unini- 
tiated eye,  a  confusion,  a  Babel,  which  it  seems  absolutely 
impossible  to  reconcile  to  the  notion  of  quiet  mercantile  trans- 
actions, the  purchase  and  sale  of  shares  and  stocks.  As 
Alain  gazed  bewildered,  he  felt  himself  gently  touched,  and, 
looking  round,  saw  the  Englishman. 

"  A  lively  scene !  "  whispered  Mr.  Vane.  "  This  is  the  heart 
of  Paris :  it  beats  very  loudly." 

"Is  your  Bourse  in  London  like  this?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you :  at  our  Exchange  the  general  public  are 
not  admitted;  the  privileged  priests  of  that  temple  sacrifice 
their  victims  in  closed  penetralia,  beyond  which  the  sounds 
made  in  the  operation  do  not  travel  to  ears  profane.  But  had 
we  an  Exchange  like  this  open  to  all  the  world,  and  placed, 
not  in  a  region  of  our  metropolis  unknown  to  fashion,  but  in 
some  elegant  square  in  St.  James's  or  at  Hyde  Park  Corner, 
I  suspect  that  our  national  character  would  soon  undergo  a 
great  change,  and  that  all  our  idlers  and  sporting-men  would 
make  their  books  there  every  day,  instead  of  waiting  long 
months  in  ennui  for  the  Doncaster  and  the  Derby.  At  pres- 
ent we  have  but  few  men  on  the  turf;  we  should  then  have 
few  men  not  on  Exchange,  especially  if  we  adopt  your  law, 
and  can  contrive  to  be  traders  without  risk  of  becoming  bank- 
rupts. Napoleon  I.  called  us  a  shopkeeping  nation.  Napo- 
leon III.  has  taught  France  to  excel  us  in  everything,  and 
certainly  he  has  made  Paris  a  shopkeeping  city." 

Alain  thought  of  Kaoul  and  Enguerrand,  and  blushed  to 
find  that  what  he  considered  a  blot  on  his  countrymen  was  so 
familiarly  perceptible  to  a  foreigner's  eye. 

"And  the  Emperor  has  done  wisely,  at  least  for  the  time," 
continued  the  Englishman,  with  a  more  thoughtful  accent. 
"He  has  found  vent  thus  for  that  very  dangerous  class  in 
Paris  society  to  which  the  subdivision  of  property  gave  birth ; 
namely,  the  crowd  of  well-born,  daring  young  men  without 
fortune  and  without  profession.  He  has  opened  the  Bourse 
and  said,  'There,  I  give  you  employment,  resource,  an  avenir.' 
He  has  cleared  the  byways  into  commerce  and  trade,  and 
opened  new  avenues  of  wealth  to  the  noblesse,  whom  the  great 


36  THE  PARISIANS. 

Eevolution  so  unwisely  beggared.  What  other  way  to  re- 
build a  noblesse  in  France,  and  give  it  a  chance  of  power  be- 
cause an  access  to  fortune?  But  to  how  many  sides  of  your 
national  character  has  the  Bourse  of  Paris  magnetic  attrac- 
tion! You  Frenchmen  are  so  brave  that  you  could  not  be 
happy  without  facing  danger,  so  covetous  of  distinction  that 
you  would  pine  yourselves  away  without  a  dash,  coute  que 
coute,  at  celebrity  and  a  red  ribbon.  Danger!  look  below 
at  that  arena:  there  it  is;  danger  daily,  hourly.  But  there 
also  is  celebrity;  win  at  the  Bourse,  as  of  old  in  a  tourna- 
ment, and  paladins  smile  on  you,  and  ladies  give  you  their 
scarves,  or,  what  is  much  the  same,  they  allow  you  to  buy 
their  cachemires.  Win  at  the  Bourse, — what  follows?  the 
Chamber,  the  Senate,  the  Cross,  the  Minister's  portefeuille. 
I  might  rejoice  in  all  this  for  the  sake  of  Europe, — could  it 
last,  and  did  it  not  bring  the  consequences  that  follow  the  de- 
moralization which  attends  it.  The  Bourse  and  the  Credit 
Mobilier  keep  Paris  quiet,  at  least  as  quiet  as  it  can  be. 
These  are  the  secrets  of  this  reign  of  splendour;  these  the 
two  lions  couchants  on  which  rests  the  throne  of  the  Imperial 
reconstructor." 

Alain  listened  surprised  and  struck.  He  had  not  given  the 
Englishman  credit  for  the  cast  of  mind  which  such  reflections 
evinced. 

Here  Lemercier  rejoined  them,  and  shook  hands  with  Graham 
Vane,  who,  taking  him  aside,  said,  "But  you  promised  to  go 
to  the  Bois,  and  indulge  my  insane  curiosity  about  the  lady  in 
the  pearl-coloured  robe?" 

"  I  have  not  forgotten ;  it  is  not  half-past  two  yet ;  you  said 
three.  Soyez  tranquille ;  I  drive  thither  from  the  Bourse 
with  Eochebriant." 

;<Is  it  necessary  to  take  with  you  that  very  good-looking 
Marquis?" 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  were  not  jealous,  because  not  yet 
in  love.  However,  if  Eochebriant  occasions  you  the  pang 
which  your  humble  servant  failed  to  inflict,  I  will  take  care 
that  he  do  not  see  the  lady." 

*'No,"  said  the  Englishman;    "on  consideration,  I  should 


THE  PARISIANS.  37 

be  very  much  obliged  to  any  one  with  whom  she  would  fall 
in  love.  That  would  disenchant  me.  Take  the  Marquis  by 
all  means." 

Meanwhile  Alain,  again  looking  down,  saw  just  under  him, 
close  by  one  of  the  pillars,  Lucien  Duplessis.  He  was  stand- 
ing apart  from  the  throng,  a  small  space  cleared  round  him- 
self, and  two  men  who  had  the  air  of  gentlemen  of  the  beau 
monde,  with  whom  he  was  conferring.  Duplessis,  thus  seen, 
was  not  like  the  Duplessis  at  the  restaurant.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  explain  what  the  change  was,  but  it  forcibly  struck 
Alain:  the  air  was  more  dignified,  the  expression  keener; 
there  was  a  look  of  conscious  power  and  command  about  the 
man  even  at  that  distance;  the  intense,  concentrated  intelli- 
gence of  his  eye,  his  firm  lip,  his  marked  features,  his  pro- 
jecting, massive  brow, —  would  have  impressed  a  very  ordi- 
nary observer.  In  fact,  the  man  was  here  in  his  native 
element;  in  the  field  in  which  his  intellect  gloried,  com- 
manded, and  had  signalized  itself  by  successive  triumphs. 
Just  thus  may  be  the  change  in  the  great  orator  whom  you 
deemed  insignificant  in  a  drawing-room,  when  you  see  his 
crest  rise  above  a  reverential  audience ;  or  the  great  soldier, 
who  was  not  distinguishable  from  the  subaltern  in  a  peaceful 
club,  could  you  see  him  issuing  the  order  to  his  aids-de-camp 
amidst  the  smoke  and  roar  of  the  battle-field. 

"  Ah,  Marquis ! "  said  Graham  Vane,  "  are  you  gazing  at 
Duplessis?  He  is  the  modern  genius  of  Paris.  He  is  at 
once  the  Cousin,  the  Guizot,  and  the  Victor  Hugo  of  specula- 
tion. Philosophy,  Eloquence,  audacious  Romance, —  all  Lit- 
erature now  is  swallowed  up  in  the  sublime  epic  of  'Agiotage,' 
and  Duplessis  is  the  poet  of  the  Empire." 

"Well  said,  M.  Grarm  Varn,"  cried  Frederic,  forgetting 
his  recent  lesson  in  English  names.  "Alain  underrates  that 
great  man.  How  could  an  Englishman  appreciate  him  so 
well?" 

"Mafoi!"  returned  Graham,  quietly:  "I  am  studying  to 
think  at  Paris,  in  order  some  day  or  other  to  know  how  to  act 
in  London.  Time  for  the  Bois.  Lemercier,  we  meet  at 
seven,  —  Philippe's." 


38  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  WHAT  do  you  think  of  the  Bourse  ?  "  asked  Lemercier,  as 
their  carriage  took  the  way  to  the  Bois. 

"I  cannot  think  of  it  yet;  I  am  stunned.  It  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  had  been  at  a  Sabbat,  of  which  the  wizards  were  agents 
de  change,  but  not  less  bent  upon  raising  Satan." 

"  Pooh !  the  best  way  to  exorcise  Satan  is  to  get  rich  enough 
not  to  be  tempted  by  him.  The  fiend  always  loved  to  haunt 
empty  places;  and  of  all  places  nowadays  he  prefers  empty 
purses  and  empty  stomachs." 

"But  do  all  people  get  rich  at  the  Bourse?  or  is  not  one 
man's  wealth  many  men's  ruin?" 

"That  is  a  question  not  very  easy  to  answer;  but  under  our 
present  system  Paris  gets  rich,  though  at  the  expense  of  indi- 
vidual Parisians.  I  will  try  and  explain.  The  average  lux- 
ury is  enormously  increased  even  in  my  experience;  what 
were  once  considered  refinements  and  fopperies  are  now 
called  necessary  comforts.  Prices  are  risen  enormously, — 
house-rent  doubled  within  the  last  five  or  six  years;  all  arti- 
cles of  luxury  are  very  much  dearer;  the  very  gloves  I  wear 
cost  twenty  per  cent  more  than  I  used  to  pay  for  gloves  of 
the  same  quality.  How  the  people  we  meet  live,  and  live  so 
well,  is  an  enigma  that  would  defy  CEdipus  if  OEdipus  were 
not  a  Parisian.  But  the  main  explanation  is  this:  specula- 
tion and  commerce,  with  the  facilities  given  to  all  invest- 
ments, have  really  opened  more  numerous  and  more  rapid 
ways  to  fortune  than  were  known  a  few  years  ago. 

"  Crowds  are  thus  attracted  to  Paris,  resolved  to  venture  a 
small  capital  in  the  hope  of  a  large  one;  they  live  on  that 
capital,  not  on  their  income,  as  gamesters  do.  There  is  an 
idea  among  us  that  it  is  necessary  to  seem  rich  in  order  to  be- 
come rich.  Thus  there  is  a  general  extravagance  and  profu- 
sion. English  milords  marvel  at  our  splendour.  Those  who, 


THE  PARISIANS.  39 

while  spending  their  capital  as  their  income,  fail  in  their 
schemes  of  fortune,  after  one,  two,  three,  or  four  years,  van- 
ish. What  becomes  of  them,  I  know  no  more  than  I  do  what 
becomes  of  the  old  moons.  Their  place  is  immediately  sup- 
plied by  new  candidates.  Paris  is  thus  kept  perennially 
sumptuous  and  splendid  by  the  gold  it  engulfs.  But  then 
some  men  succeed, —  succeed  prodigiously,  preternaturally ; 
they  make  colossal  fortunes,  which  are  magnificently  ex- 
pended. They  set  an  example  of  show  and  pomp,  which  is 
of  course  the  more  contagious  because  so  many  men  say,  'The 
other  day  those  millionnaires  were  as  poor  as  we  are;  they 
never  economized;  why  should  we?'  Paris  is  thus  doubly 
enriched,  —  by  the  fortunes  it  swallows  up,  and  by  the  for- 
tunes it  casts  up ;  the  last  being  always  reproductive,  and  the 
first  never  lost  except  to  the  individuals." 

"I  understand:  but  what  struck  me  forcibly  at  the  scene 
we  have  left  was  the  number  of  young  men  there ;  young  men 
whom  I  should  judge  by  their  appearance  to  be  gentlemen, 
evidently  not  mere  spectators,  —  eager,  anxious,  with  tablets 
in  their  hands.  That  old  or  middle-aged  men  should  find  a 
zest  in  the  pursuit  of  gain  J  can  understand,  but  youth  and 
avarice  seem  to  me  a  new  combination,  which  Moliere  never 
divined  in  his  'Avare." 

"  Young  men,  especially  if  young  gentlemen,  love  pleasure ; 
and  pleasure  in  this  city  is  very  dear.  This  explains  why  so 
many  young  men  frequent  the  Bourse.  In  the  old  gaming- 
tables now  suppressed,  young  men  were  the  majority ;  in  the 
days  of  your  chivalrous  forefathers  it  was  the  young  nobles, 
not  the  old,  who  would  stake  their  very  mantles  and  swords 
on  a  cast  of  the  die.  And,  naturally  enough,  mon  cher ;  for 
is  not  youth  the  season  of  hope,  and  is  not  hope  the  goddess 
of  gaming,  whether  at  rouge-et-noir  or  the  Bourse?" 

Alain  felt  himself  more  and  more  behind  his  generation. 
The  acute  reasoning  of  Lemercier  humbled  his  amour  propre. 
At  college  Lemercier  was  never  considered  Alain's  equal  in 
ability  or  book-learning.  What  a  stride  beyond  his  school- 
fellow had  Lemercier  now  made!  How  dull  and  stupid  the 
young  provincial  felt  himself  to  be  as  compared  with  the  easy 


40  THE  PARISIANS. 

cleverness  and  half-sportive  philosophy  of  the  Parisian's 
fluent  talk! 

He  sighed  with  a  melancholy  and  yet  with  a  generous  envy. 
He  had  too  fine  a  natural  perception  not  to  acknowledge  that 
there  is  a  rank  of  mind  as  well  as  of  birth,  and  in  the  first 
he  felt  that  Lemercier  might  well  walk  before  a  Rochebriant; 
but  his  very  humility  was  a  proof  that  he  underrated  himself. 

Lemercier  did  not  excel  him  in  mind,  but  in  experience. 
And  just  as  the  drilled  soldier  seems  a  much  finer  fellow  than 
the  raw  recruit,  because  he  knows  how  to  carry  himself,  but 
after  a  year's  discipline  the  raw  recruit  may  excel  in  martial 
air  the  upright  hero  whom  he  now  despairingly  admires,  and 
never  dreams  he  can  rival ;  so  set  a  mind  from  a  village  into 
the  drill  of  a  capital,  and  see  it  a  year  after;  it  may  tower  a 
head  higher  than  its  recruiting-sergeant. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"I  BELIEVE,"  said  Lemercier,  as  the  coup4  rolled  through 
the  lively  alleys  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  "  that  Paris  is  built 
on  a  loadstone,  and  that  every  Frenchman  with  some  iron 
globules  in  his  blood  is  irresistibly  attracted  towards  it. 
The  English  never  seem  to  feel  for  London  the  passionate  de- 
votion that  we  feel  for  Paris.  On  the  contrary,  the  London 
middle  class,  the  commercialists,  the  shopkeepers,  the  clerks, 
even  the  superior  artisans  compelled  to  do  their  business  in 
the  capital,  seem  always  scheming  and  pining  to  have  their 
home  out  of  it,  though  but  in  a  suburb." 

"You  have  been  in  London,  Frederic?" 

"Of  course;  it  is  the  mode  to  visit  that  dull  and  hideous 
metropolis." 

"  If  it  be  dull  and  hideous,  no  wonder  the  people  who  are 
compelled  to  do  business  in  it  seek  the  pleasures  of  home  out 
of  it." 


THE  PARISIANS.  _  41 

"  It  is  very  droll  that  though  the  middle  class  entirely  gov- 
ern the  melancholy  Albion,  it  is  the  only  country  in  Europe 
in  which  the  middle  class  seem  to  have  no  amusements ;  nay, 
they  legislate  against  amusement.  They  have  no  leisure-day 
but  Sunday;  and  on  that  day  they  close  all  their  theatres, — 
even  their  museums  and  picture-galleries.  What  amusements 
there  may  be  in  England  are  for  the  higher  classes  and  the 
lowest." 

"What  are  the  amusements  of  the  lowest  class?" 

"Getting  drunk." 

"Nothing  else?" 

"  Yes.  I  was  taken  at  night  under  protection  of  a  police- 
man to  some  cabarets,  where  I  found  crowds  of  that  class 
which  is  the  stratum  below  the  working  class;  lads  who 
sweep  crossings  and  hold  horses,  mendicants,  and,  I  was  told, 
thieves,  girls  whom  a  servant-maid  would  not  speak  to, — 
very  merry,  dancing  quadrilles  and  waltzes,  and  regaling 
themselves  on  sausages, — the  happiest-looking  folks  I  found 
in  all  London;  and,  I  must  say,  conducting  themselves  very 
decently." 

"  Ah ! "  Here  Lemercier  pulled  the  check-string.  "  Will 
you  object  to  a  walk  in  this  quiet  alley?  I  see  some  one 
whom  I  have  promised  the  Englishman  to  —  But  heed  me, 
Alain,  don't  fall  in  love  with  her." 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

THE  lady  in  the  pearl-coloured  dress !  Certainly  it  was  a 
face  that  might  well  arrest  the  eye  and  linger  long  on  the 
remembrance. 

There  are  certain  "  beauty-women "  as  there  are  certain 
"  beauty -men, "  in  whose  features  one  detects  no  fault,  who 
are  the  show  figures  of  any  assembly  in  which  they  appear, 
but  who,  somehow  or  other,  inspire  no  sentiment  and  excite 


42  THE  PARISIANS. 

no  interest;  they  lack  some  expression,  whether  of  mind,  or 
of  soul,  or  of  heart,  without  which  the  most  beautiful  face  is 
but  a  beautiful  picture.  This  lady  was  not  one  of  those 
"beauty-women."  Her  features  taken  singly  were  by  no 
means  perfect,  nor  were  they  set  off  by  any  brilliancy  of  col- 
ouring. But  the  countenance  aroused  and  impressed  the  imag- 
ination with  a  belief  that  there  was  some  history  attached  to 
it,  which  you  longed  to  learn.  The  hair,  simply  parted  over 
a  forehead  unusually  spacious  and  high  for  a  woman,  was  of 
lustrous  darkness ;  the  eyes,  of  a  deep  violet  blue,  were  shaded 
with  long  lashes. 

Their  expression  was  soft  and  mournful,  but  unobservant. 
She  did  not  notice  Alain  and  Lemercier  as  the  two  men  slowly 
passed  her.  She  seemed  abstracted,  gazing  into  space  as  one 
absorbed  in  thought  or  revery.  Her  complexion  was  clear 
and  pale,  and  apparently  betokened  delicate  health. 

Lemercier  seated  himself  on  a  bench  beside  the  path,  and 
invited  Alain  to  do  the  same.  "She  will  return  this  way 
soon,"  said  the  Parisian,  "and  we  can  observe  her  more  atten- 
tively and  more  respectfully  thus  seated  than  if  we  were  on 
foot;  meanwhile,  what  do  you  think  of  her?  Is  she  French? 
is  she  Italian?  can  she  be  English?" 

"  I  should  have  guessed  Italian,  judging  by  the  darkness  of 
the  hair  and  the  outline  of  the  features;  but  do  Italians  have 
so  delicate  a  fairness  of  complexion?  " 

"Very  rarely;  and  I  should  guess  her  to  be  French,  judg- 
ing by  the  intelligence  of  her  expression,  the  simple  neatness 
of  her  dress,  and  by  that  nameless  refinement  of  air  in  which 
a  Parisienne  excels  all  the  descendants  of  Eve, —  if  it  were 
not  for  her  eyes.  I  never  saw  a  Frenchwoman  with  eyes  of 
that  peculiar  shade  of  blue;  and  if  a  Frenchwoman  had  such 
eyes,  I  natter  myself  she  would  have  scarcely  allowed  us  to 
pass  without  making  some  use  of  them." 

"Do  you  think  she  is  married?"  asked  Alain. 

"I  hope  so;  for  a  girl  of  her  age,  if  comme  U  faut,  can 
scarcely  walk  alone  in  the  Bois,  and  would  not  have  ac- 
quired that  look  so  intelligent,  —  more  than  intelligent,  — 
so  poetic." 


THE  PARISIANS.  43 

"But  regard  that  air  of  unmistakable  distinction;  regard 
that  expression  of  face, —  so  pure,  so  virginal:  comme  il  faut 
she  must  be." 

As  Alain  said  these  last  words,  the  lady,  who  had  turned 
back,  was  approaching  them,  and  in  full  view  of  their  gaze. 
She  seemed  unconscious  of  their  existence  as  before,  and  Le- 
mercier  noticed  that  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  were  murmuring 
inaudibly  to  herself. 

She  did  not  return  again,  but  continued  her  walk  straight 
on  till  at  the  end  of  the  alley  she  entered  a  carriage  in  waiting 
for  her,  and  was  driven  off. 

"  Quick,  quick !  "  cried  Lemercier,  running  towards  his  own 
coupe;  "we  must  give  chase." 

Alain  followed  somewhat  less  hurriedly,  and,  agreeably  to 
instructions  Lemercier  had  already  given  to  his  coachman, 
the  Parisian's  coupe  set  off  at  full  speed  in  the  track  of  the 
strange  lady's,  which  was  still  in  sight. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  the  carriage  in  chase  stopped 
at  the  grille  of  one  of  those  charming  little  villas  to  be  found 

in  the  pleasant  suburb  of  A ;  a  porter  emerged  from  the 

lodge,  opened  the  gate;  the  carriage  drove  in,  again  stopped 
at  the  door  of  the  house,  and  the  two  gentlemen  could  not 
catch  even  a  glimpse  of  the  lady's  robe  as  she  descended  from 
the  carriage  and  disappeared  within  the  house. 

"I  see  a  cafe  yonder,"  said  Lemercier;  "let  us  learn  all  we 
can  as  to  the  fair  unknown,  over  a  sorbet  or  a, petit  verre." 

Alain  silently,  but  not  reluctantly,  consented.  He  felt  in 
the  fair  stranger  an  interest  new  to  his  existence. 

They  entered  the  little  cafe,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Lemer- 
cier, with  the  easy  savoir  vivre  of  a  Parisian,  had  extracted 
from  the  garcon  as  much  as  probably  any  one  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood knew  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  villa. 

It  had  been  hired  and  furnished  about  two  months  previ- 
ously in  the  name  of  Signora  Venosta;  but,  according  to  the 
report  of  the  servants,  that  lady  appeared  to  be  the  gouver- 
nante  or  guardian  of  a  lady  much  younger,  out  of  whose  in- 
come the  villa  was  rented  and  the  household  maintained. 

It  was  for  her  the  coupe  was  hired  from  Paris.     The  elder 


44  THE  PARISIANS. 

lady  very  rarely  stirred  out  during  the  day,  but  always  ac- 
companied the  younger  in  any  evening  visits  to  the  theatre  or 
the  houses  of  friends. 

It  was  only  within  the  last  few  weeks  that  such  visits  had 
been  made. 

The  younger  lady  was  in  delicate  health,  and  under  the 
care  of  an  English  physician  famous  for  skill  in  the  treatment 
of  pulmonary  complaints.  It  was  by  his  advice  that  she  took 
daily  walking  exercise  in  the  Bois.  The  establishment  con- 
sisted of  three  servants,  all  Italians,  and  speaking  but  imper- 
fect French.  The  gar  f  on  did  not  know  whether  either  of  the 
ladies  was  married,  but  their  mode  of  life  was  free  from  all 
scandal  or  suspicion;  they  probably  belonged  to  the  literary 
or  musical  world,  as  the  garfon  had  observed  as  their  visi- 
tors the  eminent  author  M.  Savarin  and  his  wife;  and,  still 
more  frequently,  an  old  man  not  less  eminent  as  a  musical 
composer. 

"  It  is  clear  to  me  now, "  said  Lemercier,  as  the  two  friends 
reseated  themselves  in  the  carriage,  "that  our  pearly  ange  is 
some  Italian  singer  of  repute  enough  in  her  own  country  to 
have  gained  already  a  competence ;  and  that,  perhaps  on  ac- 
count of  her  own  health  or  her  friend's,  she  is  living  quietly 
here  in  the  expectation  of  some  professional  engagement,  or 
the  absence  of  some  foreign  lover." 

"Lover!  do  you  think  that?"  exclaimed  Alain,  in  a  tone  of 
voice  that  betrayed  pain. 

"It  is  possible  enough;  and  in  that  case  the  Englishman 
may  profit  little  by  the  information  I  have  promised  to  give 
him." 

"You  have  promised  the  Englishman?" 

"Do  you  not  remember  last  night  that  he  described  the 
lady,  and  said  that  her  face  haunted  him :  and  I  —  " 

"  Ah !  I  remember  now.  What  do  you  know  of  this  Eng- 
lishman? He  is  rich,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  I  hear  he  is  very  rich  now ;  that  an  uncle  lately  left 
him  an  enormous  sum  of  money.  He  was  attached  to  the 
English  Embassy  many  years  ago,  Avhich  accounts  for  his 
good  French  and  his  knowledge  of  Parisian  life.  He  comes 


THE  PARISIANS.  45 

to  Paris  very  often,  and  I  have  known  him  some  time.  In- 
deed he  has  intrusted  to  me  a  difficult  and  delicate  commis- 
sion. The  English  tell  me  that  his  father  was  one  of  the 
most  eminent  members  of  their  Parliament,  of  ancient  birth, 
very  highly  connected,  but  ran  out  his  fortune  and  died  poor ; 
that  our  friend  had  for  some  years  to  maintain  himself,  I 
fancy,  by  his  pen;  that  he  is  considered  very  able;  and,  now 
that  his  uncle  has  enriched  him,  likely  to  enter  public  life 
and  run  a  career  as  distinguished  as  his  father's." 

"Happy  man!  happy  are  the  English,"  said  the  Marquis, 
with  a  sigh;  and  as  the  carriage  now  entered  Paris,  he 
pleaded  the  excuse  of  an  engagement,  bade  his  friend  good- 
by,  and  went  his  way  musing  through  the  crowded  streets. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LETTEE  FROM  ISAURA  CICOGNA  TO  MADAME  DE 
GRANTMESNIL. 

VILLA  I)' ,  A . 

I  CAN  never  express  to  you,  my  beloved  Eulalie,  the  strange 
charm  which  a  letter  from  you  throws  over  my  poor  little 
lonely  world  for  days  after  it  is  received.  There  is  always 
in  it  something  that  comforts,  something  that  sustains,  but 
also  a  something  that  troubles  and  disquiets  me.  I  suppose 
Goethe  is  right,  "that  it  is  the  property  of  true  genius  to  dis- 
turb all  settled  ideas,"  in  order,  no  doubt,  to  lift  them  into  a 
higher  level  when  they  settle  down  again. 

Your  sketch  of  the  new  Avork  you  are  meditating  amid  the 
orange  groves  of  Provence  interests  me  intensely;  yet,  do 
you  forgive  me  when  I  add  that  the  interest  is  not  without 
terror?  I  do  not  find  myself  able  to  comprehend  how,  amid 
those  lovely  scenes  of  Nature,  your  mind  voluntarily  sur- 
rounds itself  with  images  of  pain  and  discord.  I  stand  in 


46  THE  PARISIANS. 

awe  of  the  calm  with  which  you  subject  to  your  analysis  the 
infirmities  of  reason  and  the  tumults  of  passion.  And  all 
those  laws  of  the  social  state  which  seem  to  me  so  fixed  and 
immovable  you  treat  with  so  quiet  a  scorn,  as  if  they  were 
but  the  gossamer  threads  which  a  touch  of  your  slight 
woman's  hand  could  brush  away.  But  I  cannot  venture  to 
discuss  such  subjects  with  you.  It  is  only  the  skilled  en- 
chanter who  can  stand  safely  in  the  magic  circle,  and  compel 
the  spirits  that  he  summons,  even  if  they  are  evil,  to  minis- 
ter to  ends  in  which  he  foresees  a  good. 

We  continue  to  live  here  very  quietly,  and  I  do  not  as  yet 
feel  the  worse  for  the  colder  climate.  Indeed,  my  wonderful 
doctor,  who  was  recommended  to  me  as  American,  but  is  in 
reality  English,  assures  me  that  a  single  winter  spent  here 
under  his  care  will  suffice  for  my  complete  re-establishment. 
Yet  that  career,  to'the  training  for  which  so  many  years  have 
been  devoted,  does  not  seem  to  me  so  alluring  as  it  once  did. 

I  have  much  to  say  on  this  subject,  which  I  defer  till  I  can 
better  collect  my  own  thoughts  on  it;  at  present  they  are 
confused  and  struggling.  The  great  Maestro  has  been  most 
gracious. 

In  what  a  radiant  atmosphere  his  genius  lives  and  breathes! 
Even  in  his  cynical  moods,  his  very  cynicism  has  in  it 
the  ring  of  a  jocund  music,  — the  laugh  of  Figaro,  not  of 
Mephistopheles. 

We  went  to  dine  with  him  last  week.  He  invited  to  meet 

us  Madame  S ,  who  has  this  year  conquered  all  opposition, 

and  reigns  alone,  the  great  S ;  Mr.  T ,  a  pianist  of 

admirable  promise;  your  friend  M.  Savarin,  wit,  critic,  and 
poet,  \vith  his  pleasant,  sensible  wife ;  and  a  few  others,  who, 
the  Maestro  confided  to  me  in  a  whisper,  were  authorities  in 

the  press.  After  dinner  S sang  to  us,  magnificently,  of 

course.  Then  she  herself  graciously  turned  to  me,  said  how 
much  she  had  heard  from  the  Maestro  in  my  praise,  and  so 
and  so.  I  was  persuaded  to  sing  after  her.  I  need  not  say 
to  what  disadvantage.  But  I  forgot  my  nervousness;  I  for- 
got my  audience;  I  forgot  myself,  as  I  always  do  when  once 
my  soul,  as  it  were,  finds  wing  in  music,  and  buoys  itself  in 


THE  PARISIANS.  47 

the  air,  relieved  from  the  sense  of  earth.  I  knew  not  that  I 
had  succeeded  till  I  came  to  a  close,  and  then  my  eyes  resting 
on  the  face  of  the  grand  prima  donna,  I  was  seized  with  an 
indescribable  sadness,  with  a  keen  pang  of  remorse.  Perfect 
artiste  though  she  be,  and  with  powers  in  her  own  realm  of 
art  which  admit  of  no  living  equal,  I  saw  at  once  that  I  had 
pained  her :  she  had  grown  almost  livid ;  her  lips  were  quiv- 
ering, and  it  was  only  with  a  great  effort  that  she  muttered 
out  some  faint  words  intended  for  applause.  I  comprehended 
by  an  instinct  how  gradually  there  can  grow  upon  the  mind 
of  an  artist  the  most  generous  that  jealousy  which  makes  the 
fear  of  a  rival  annihilate  the  delight  in  art.  If  ever  I  should 
achieve  S 's  fame  as  a  singer,  should  I  feel  the  same  jeal- 
ousy?—  I  think  not  now,  but  I  have  not  been  tested.  She 
went  away  abruptly.  I  spare  you  the  recital  of  the  compli- 
ments paid  to  me  by  my  other  auditors,  compliments  that 
gave  me  no  pleasure;  for  on  all  lips,  except  those  of  the 
Maestro,  they  implied,  as  the  height  of  eulogy,  that  I  had  in- 
flicted torture  upon  S .  "If  so,"  said  he,  "she  would  be 

as  foolish  as  a  rose  that  was  jealous  of  the  whiteness  of  a  lily. 
You  would  do  yourself  great  wrong,  my  child,  if  you  tried  to 
vie  with  the  rose  in  its  own  colour." 

He  patted  my  bended  head  as  he  spoke,  with  that  kind  of 
fatherly  king-like  fondness  with  which  he  honours  me;  and  I 
took  his  hand  in  mine,  and  kissed  it  gratefully.  "  Neverthe- 
less," said  Savarin,  "when  the  lily  comes  out  there  will  be  a 
furious  attack  on  it,  made  by  the  clique  that  devotes  itself  to 
the  rose:  a  lily  clique  will  be  formed  en  revanche,  and  I  fore- 
see a  fierce  paper  war.  Do  not  be  frightened  at  its  first  out- 
burst :  every  fame  worth  having  must  be  fought  for. " 

Is  it  so?  have  you  had  to  fight  for  your  fame,  Eulalie?  and 
do  you  hate  all  contests  as  much  as  I  do? 

Our  only  other  gayety  since  I  last  wrote  was  a  soiree  at  M. 
Louvier's.  That  republican  millionnaire  was  not  slow  in 
attending  to  the  kind  letter  you  addressed  to  him  recommend- 
ing us  to  his  civilities.  He  called  at  once,  placed  his  good 
offices  at  our  disposal,  took  charge  of  my  modest  fortune, 
which  he  has  invested,  no  doubt,  as  safely  as  it  is  advantage- 


48  THE  PARISIANS. 

ously  in  point  of  interest,  hired  our  carriage  for  us,  and  in 
short  has  been  most  amiably  useful. 

At  his  house  we  met  many  to  me  most  pleasant,  for  they 
spoke  with  such  genuine  appreciation  of  your  works  and  your- 
self. But  there  were  others  whom  I  should  never  have  ex- 
pected to  meet  under  the  roof  of  a  Croesus  who  has  so  great  a 
stake  in  the  order  of  things  established.  One  young  man  —  a 
noble  whom  he  specially  presented  to  me,  as  a  politician  who 
would  be  at  the  head  of  affairs  when  the  Ked  .Republic  was 
established  —  asked  me  whether  I  did  not  agree  with  him  that 
all  private  property  was  public  spoliation,  and  that  the  great 
enemy  to  civilization  was  religion,  no  matter  in  what  form. 

He  addressed  to  me  these  tremendous  questions  with  an 
effeminate  lisp,  and  harangued  on  them  with  small  feeble 
gesticulations  of  pale  dirty  fingers  covered  with  rings. 

I  asked  him  if  there  were  many  who  in  France  shared  his 
ideas. 

"Quite  enough  to  carry  them  some  day,"  he  answered  with 
a  lofty  smile.  "And  the  day  may  be  nearer  than  the  world 
thinks,  when  my  confreres  will  be  so  numerous  that  they  will 
have  to  shoot  down  each  other  for  the  sake  of  cheese  to  their 
bread." 

That  day  nearer  than  the  world  thinks !  Certainly,  so  far 
as  one  may  judge  the  outward  signs  of  the  world  at  Paris,  it 
does  not  think  of  such  things  at  all.  With  what  an  air  of 
self-content  the  beautiful  city  parades  her  riches !  Who  can 
gaze  on  her  splendid  palaces,  her  gorgeous  shops,  and  believe 
that  she  will  give  ear  to  doctrines  that  would  annihilate  pri- 
vate rights  of  property;  or  who  can  enter  her  crowded 
churches,  and  dream  that  she  can  ever  again  install  a  republic 
too  civilized  for  religion? 

Adieu.  Excuse  me  for  this  dull  letter.  If  I  have  written 
on  much  that  has  little  interest  even  for  me,  it  is  that  I  wish 
to  distract  my  mind  from  brooding  over  the  question  that  in- 
terests me  most,  and  on  which  I  most  need  your  counsel.  I 
will  try  to  approach  it  in  my  next. 

ISAURA. 


THE  PARISIANS.  49 


FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Eulalie,  Eulalie !  — "What  mocking  spirit  has  been  permitted 
in  this  modern  age  of  ours  to  place  in  the  heart  of  woman  the 
ambition  which  is  the  prerogative  of  men?  You  indeed,  so 
richly  endowed  with  a  man's  genius,  have  a  right  to  man's 
aspirations.  But  what  can  justify  such  ambition  in  me? 
Nothing  but  this  one  unintellectual  perishable  gift  of  a  voice 
that  does  but  please  in  uttering  the  thoughts  of  others. 
Doubtless  I  could  make  a  name  familiar  for  its  brief  time  to 
the  talk  of  Europe,  —  a  name,  what  name?  a  singer's  name. 
Once  I  thought  that  name  a  glory.  Shall  I  ever  forget  the 
day  when  you  first  shone  upon  me;  when,  emerging  from 
childhood  as  from  a  dim  and  solitary  bypath,  I  stood  forlorn 
on  the  great  thoroughfare  of  life,  and  all  the  prospects  before 
me  stretched  sad  in  mists  and  in  rain?  You  beamed  on  me 
then  as  the  sun  coming  out  from  the  cloud  and  changing  the 
face  of  earth;  you  opened  to  my  sight  the  fairy-land  of  poetry 
and  art;  you  took  me  by  the  hand  and  said,  "Courage!  there 
is  at  each  step  some  green  gap  in  the  hedgerows,  some  soft 
escape  from  the  stony  thoroughfare.  Beside  the  real  life  ex- 
pands the  ideal  life  to  those  who  seek  it.  Droop  not,  seek 
it:  the  ideal  life  has  its  sorrows,  but  it  never  admits  despair; 
as  on  the  ear  of  him  who  follows  the  winding  course  of  a 
stream,  the  stream  ever  varies  the  note  of  its  music,  —  now 
loud  with  the  rush  of  the  falls;  now  low  and  calm  as  it  glides 
by  the  level  marge  of  smooth  banks;  now  sighing  through 
the  stir  of  the  reeds;  now  babbling  with  a  fretful  joy  as  some 
sudden  curve  on  the  shore  stays  its  flight  among  gleaming 
pebbles, — so  to  the  soul  of  the  artist  is  the  voice  of  the  art 
ever  fleeting  beside  and  before  him.  Nature  gave  thee  the 
bird's  gift  of  song:  raise  the  gift  into  art,  and  make  the  art 
thy  companion. 

"Art  and  Hope  were  twin-born,  and  they  die  together." 
See  how  faithfully  I  remember,  methinks,  your  very  words. 
But  the  magic  of  the  words,  which  I  then  but  dimly  under- 
stood, was  in  your  smile  and  in  your  eye,  and  the  queen-like 

VOL.    I.  —  4 


50  THE  PARISIANS. 

wave  of  your  hand  as  if  beckoning  to  a  world  which  lay  be- 
fore you,  visible  and  familiar  as  your  native  land.  And  how 
devotedly,  with  what  earnestness  of  passion,  I  gave  myself 
up  to  the  task  of  raising  my  gift  into  an  art!  I  thought  of 
nothing  else,  dreamed  of  nothing  else;  and  oh,  now  sweet  to 
me  then  were  words  of  praise !  "  Another  year  yet, "  at  length 
said  the  masters,  "and  you  ascend  your  throne  among  the 
queens  of  song."  Then  —  then  —  I  would  have  changed  for 
no  other  throne  on  earth  my  hope  of  that  to  be  achieved  in 
the  realms  of  my  art.  And  then  came  that  long  fever:  my 
strength  broke  down,  and  the  Maestro  said,  "Rest,  or  your 
voice  is  gone,  and  your  throne  is  lost  forever."  How  hateful 
that  rest  seemed  to  me!  You  again  came  to  my  aid.  You 
said,  "  The  time  you  think  lost  should  be  but  time  improved. 
Penetrate  your  mind  with  other  songs  than  the  trash  of  Li- 
bretti. The  more  you  habituate  yourself  to  the  forms,  the 
more  you  imbue  yourself  with  the  spirit,  in  which  passions 
have  been  expressed  and  character  delineated  by  great  writ- 
ers, the  more  completely  you  will  accomplish  yourself  in  your 
own  special  art  of  singer  and  actress."  So,  then,  you  allured 
me  to  a  new  study.  Ah!  in  so  doing  did  you  dream  that  you 
diverted  me  from  the  old  ambition?  My  knowledge  of  French 
and  Italian,  and  my  rearing  in  childhood,  which  had  made 
English  familiar  to  me,  gave  me  the  keys  to  the  treasure- 
houses  of  three  languages.  Naturally  I  began  with  that  in 
which  your  masterpieces  are  composed.  Till  then  I  had  not 
even  read  your  works.  They  were  the  first  I  chose.  How 
they  impressed,  how  they  startled  me!  what  depths  in  the 
mind  of  man,  in  the  heart  of  woman,  they  revealed  to  me! 
But  I  owned  to  you  then,  and  I  repeat  it  now,  neither  they 
nor  any  of  the  works  in  romance  and  poetry  which  form  the 
boast  of  recent  French  literature  satisfied  yearnings  for  that 
calm  sense  of  beauty,  that  divine  joy  in  a  world  beyond  this 
world,  which  you  had  led  me  to  believe  it  was  the  preroga- 
tive of  ideal  art  to  bestow.  And  when  I  told  you  this  with 
the  rude  frankness  you  had  bid  me  exercise  in  talk  with  you, 
a  thoughtful,  melancholy  shade  fell  over  your  face,  and  you 
said  quietly,  "You  are  right,  child;  we,  the  French  of  our 


THE   PARISIANS.  51 

time,  are  the  offspring  of  revolutions  that  settled  nothing, 
unsettled  all :  we  resemble  those  troubled  States  which  rush 
into  war  abroad  in  order  to  re-establish  peace  at  home.  Our 
books  suggest  problems  to  men  for  reconstructing  some  social 
system  in  which  the  calm  that  belongs  to  art  may  be  found 
at  last :  but  such  books  should  not  be  in  your  hands ;  they  are 
not  for  the  innocence  and  youth  of  women  as  yet  unchanged 
by  the  systems  which  exist."  And  the  next  day  you  brought 
me  Tasso's  great  poem,  the  "  Gerusalemme  Liberata,"  and 
said,  smiling,  "Art  in  its  calm  is  here." 

Yfou  remember  that  I  was  then  at  Sorrento  by  the  order  of 
my  physician.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  soft  autumn  day 
when  I  sat  amongst  the  lonely  rocklets  to  the  left  of  the 
town,  —  the  sea  before  me,  with  scarce  a  ripple;  my  very 
heart  steeped  in  the  melodies  of  that  poem,  so  marvellous  for 
a  strength  disguised  in  sweetness,  and  for  a  symmetry  in 
which  each  proportion  blends  into  the  other  with  the  perfect- 
ness  of  a  Grecian  statue.  The  whole  place  seemed  to  me 
filled  with  the  presence  of  the  poet  to  whom  it  had  given 
birth.  Certainly  the  reading  of  that  poem  formed  an  era  in 
my  existence :  to  this  day  I  cannot  acknowledge  the  faults  or 
weaknesses  which  your  criticisms  pointed  out;  I  believe  be- 
cause they  are  in  unison  with  my  own  nature,  which  yearns 
for  harmony,  and,  finding  that,  rests  contented.  I  shrink 
from  violent  contrasts,  and  can  discover  nothing  tame  and 
insipid  in  a  continuance  of  sweetness  and  serenity.  But  it 
was  not  till  after  I  had  read  "  La  Gerusalemme  "  again  and 
again,  and  then  sat  and  brooded  over  it,  that  I  recognized  the 
main  charm  of  the  poem  in  the  religion  which  clings  to  it  as 
the  perfume  clings  to  a  flower,  —  a  religion  sometimes  melan- 
choly, but  never  to  me  sad.  Hope  always  pervades  it.  Surely 
if,  as  you  said,  "Hope  is  twin-born  with  art,"  it  is  because 
art  at  its  highest  blends  itself  unconsciously  with  religion, 
and  proclaims  its  affinity  with  hope  by  its  faith  in  some  fu- 
ture good  more  perfect  than  it  has  realized  in  the  past. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  it  was  in  this  poem  so  pre-eminently 
Christian  that  I  found  the  something  which  I  missed  and 
craved  for  in  modern  French  masterpieces,  even  yours,  —  a 


52  THE  PARISIANS. 

something  spiritual,  speaking  to  my  own  soul,  calling  it 
forth ;  distinguishing  it  as  an  essence  apart  from  mere  human 
reason;  soothing,  even  when  it  excited;  making  earth  nearer 
to  heaven.  And  when  I  ran  on  in  this  strain  to  you  after  my 
own  wild  fashion,  you  took  my  head  between  your  hands  and 
kissed  me,  and  said,  "Happy  are  those  who  believe!  long 
may  that  happiness  be  thine !  "  Why  did  I  not  feel  in  Dante 
the  Christian  charm  that  I  felt  in  Tasso?  Dante  in  your 
eyes,  as  in  those  of  most  judges,  is  infinitely  the  greater  gen- 
ius ;  but  reflected  on  the  dark  stream  of  that  genius  the  stars 
are  so  troubled,  the  heaven  so  threatening. 

Just  as  my  year  of  holiday  was  expiring,  I  turned  to  Eng- 
lish literature ;  and  Shakspeare,  of  course,  was  the  first  Eng- 
lish poet  put  into  my  hands.  It  proves  how  childlike  my 
mind  still  was,  that  my  earliest  sensation  in  reacting  him  was 
that  of  disappointment.  It  was  not  only  that,  despite  my 
familiarity  with  English  (thanks  chiefly  to  the  care  of  him 
whom  I  call  my  second  father),  there  is  much  in  the  meta- 
phorical diction  of  Shakspeare  which  I  failed  to  comprehend; 
but  he  seemed  to  me  so  far  like  the  modern  French  writers 
who  affect  to  have  found  inspiration  in  his  muse,  that  he 
obtrudes  images  of  pain  and  suffering  without  cause  or  motive 
sufficiently  clear  to  ordinary  understandings,  as  I  had  taught 
myself  to  think  it  ought  to  be  in  the  drama. 

He  makes  Fate  so  cruel  that  we  lose  sight  of  the  mild  deity 
behind  her.  Compare,  in  this,  Corneille's  "Polyeucte,"  with 
the  "Hamlet."  In  the  first  an  equal  calamity  befalls  the 
good,  but  in  their  calamity  they  are  blessed.  The  death  of 
the  martyr  is  the  triumph  of  his  creed.  But  when  we  have 
put  down  the  English  tragedy, —  when  Hamlet  and  Ophelia 
are  confounded  in  death  with  Polonius  and  the  fratricidal 
king,  we  see  not  what  good  end  for  humanity  is  achieved. 
The  passages  that  fasten  on  our  memory  do  not  make  us  hap- 
pier and  holier :  they  suggest  but  terrible  problems,  to  which 
they  give  us  no  solution. 

In  the  "  Horaces "  of  Corneille  there  are  fierce  contests, 
rude  passions,  tears  drawn  from  some  of  the  bitterest  sources 
of  human  pity;  but  then  through  all  stands  out,  large  and 


THE  PARISIANS.  53 

visible  to  the  eyes  of  all  spectators,  the  great  ideal  of  devoted 
patriotism.  How  much  of  all  that  has  been  grandest  in  the 
life  of  France,  redeeming  even  its  worst  crimes  of  revolution 
in  the  love  of  country,  has  had  its  origin  in  the  "  Horaces  " 
of  Corneille.  But  I  doubt  if  the  fates  of  Coriolanus  and 
Caesar  and  Brutus  and  Antony,  in  the  giant  tragedies  of 
Shakspeare,  have  made  Englishmen  more  willing  to  die  for 
England.  In  fine,  it  was  long  before  —  I  will  not  say  I  un- 
derstood or  rightly  appreciated  Shakspeare,  for  no  English- 
man would  admit  that  I  or  even  you  could  ever  do  so,  but 
before  I  could  recognize  the  justice  of  the  place  his  country 
claims  for  him  as  the  genius  without  an  equal  in  the  litera- 
ture of  Europe.  Meanwhile  the  ardour  I  had  put  into  study, 
and  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  emotions  which  the  study  called 
forth,  made  themselves  felt  in  a  return  of  my  former  illness, 
with  symptoms  still  more  alarming;  and  when  the  year  was 
out  I  was  ordained  to  rest  for  perhaps  another  year  before  I 
could  sing  in  public,  still  less  appear  on  the  stage.  How  I 
rejoiced  when  I  heard  that  fiat !  for  I  emerged  from  that  year 
of  study  with  a  heart  utterly  estranged  from  the  profession 
in  which  I  had  centred  my  hopes  before —  Yes,  Eulalie, 
you  had  bid  me  accomplish  myself  for  the  arts  of  utterance 
by  the  study  of  arts  in  which  thoughts  originate  the  words 
they  employ ;  and  in  doing  so  I  had  changed  myself  into  an- 
other being.  I  was  forbidden  all  fatigue  of  mind :  my  books 
were  banished,  but  not  the  new  self  which  the  books  had 
formed.  Recovering  slowly  through  the  summer,  I  came 
hither  two  months  since,  ostensibly  for  the  advice  of  Dr. 

C ,  but  really  in  the  desire  to  commune  with  my  own 

heart  and  be  still. 

And  now  I  have  poured  forth  that  heart  to  you,  would  you 
persuade  me  still  to  be  a  singer?  If  you  do,  remember  at 
least  how  jealous  and  absorbing  the  art  of  the  singer  and  the 
actress  is,  — how  completely  I  must  surrender  myself  to  it, 
and  live  among  books  or  among  dreams  no  more.  Can  I  be 
anything  else  but  singer?  and  if  not,  should  I  be  contented 
merely  to  read  and  to  dream? 

I  must  confide  to  you  one  ambition  which  during  the  lazy 


54  THE  PARISIANS. 

Italian  summer  took  possession  of  me;  I  must  tell  you  the 
ambition,  and  add  that  I  have  renounced  it  as  a  vain  one.  I 
had  hoped  that  I  could  compose,  I  mean  in  music.  I  was 
pleased  with  some  things  I  did:  they  expressed  in  music 
what  I  could  not  express  in  words;  and  one  secret  object  in 
coming  here  was  to  submit  them  to  the  great  Maestro.  He 
listened  to  them  patiently :  he  complimented  me  on  my  accu- 
racy in  the  mechanical  laws  of  composition ;  he  even  said  that 
my  favourite  airs  were  "touchants  et  gracieux." 

And  so  he  would  have  left  me,  but  I  stopped  him  timidly, 
and  said,  "  Tell  me  frankly,  do  you  think  that  with  time  and 
study  I  could  compose  music  such  as  singers  equal  to  myself 
would  sing  to?" 

"  You  mean  as  a  professional  composer?  " 

"Well,  yes." 

"  And  to  the  abandonment  of  your  vocation  as  a  singer?  " 

"Yes." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  should  be  your  worst  enemy  if  I  encour- 
aged such  a  notion :  cling  to  the  career  in  which  you  can  be 
greatest ;  gain  but  health,  and  I  wager  my  reputation  on  your 
glorious  success  on  the  stage.  What  can  you  be  as  a  com- 
poser? You  will  set  pretty  music  to  pretty  words,  and  will 
be  sung  in  drawing-rooms  with  the  fame  a  little  more  or  less 
that  generally  attends  the  compositions  of  female  amateurs. 
Aim  at  something  higher,  as  I  know  you  would  do,  and  you 
will  not  succeed.  Is  there  any  instance  in  modern  times, 
perhaps  in  any  times,  of  a  female  composer  who  attains  even 
to  the  eminence  of  a  third-rate  opera-writer?  Composition 
in  letters  may  be  of  no  sex.  In  that  Madame  Dudevant  and 
your  friend  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  can  beat  most  men;  but 
the  genius  of  musical  composition  is  homme,  and  accept  it  as 
a  compliment  when  I  say  that  you  are  essentially  femme." 

He  left  me,  of  course,  mortified  and  humbled;  but  I  feel 
he  is  right  as  regards  myself,  though  whether  in  his  depreci- 
ation of  our  whole  sex  I  cannot  say.  But  as  this  hope  has 
left  me,  I  have  become  more  disquieted,  still  more  restless. 
Counsel  me,  Eulalie ;  counsel,  and,  if  possible,  comfort  me. 

ISAURA. 


THE  PARISIANS.  55 


FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

No  letter  from  you  yet,  and  I  have  left  you  in  peace  for  ten 
days.  How  do  you  think  1  have  spent  them?  The  Maestro 
called  on  us  with  M.  Savarin,  to  insist  on  our  accompanying 
them  on  a  round  of  the  theatres.  I  had  not  been  to  one  since 
my  arrival.  I  divined  that  the  kind-hearted  composer  had 
a  motive  in  this  invitation.  He  thought  that  in  witnessing 
the  applauses  bestowed  on  actors,  and  sharing  in  the  fascina- 
tion in  which  theatrical  illusion  holds  an  audience,  my  old 
passion  for  the  stage,  and  with  it  the  longing  for  an  artiste's 
fame,  would  revive. 

In  my  heart  I  wished  that  his  expectations  might  be  real- 
ized. Well  for  me  if  I  could  once  more  concentrate  all  my 
aspirations  on  a  prize  within  my  reach ! 

We  went  first  to  see  a  comedy  greatly  in  vogue,  and  the 
author  thoroughly  understands  the  French  stage  of  our  day. 
The  acting  was  excellent  in  its  way.  The  next  night  we 
went  to  the  Odeon,  a  romantic  melodrama  in  six  acts,  and  I 
know  not  how  many  tableaux.  I  found  no  fault  with  the 
acting  there.  I  do  not  give  you  the  rest  of  our  programme. 
We  visited  all  the  principal  theatres,  reserving  the  opera  and 

Madame  S for  the  last.     Before  I  speak  of  the  opera,  let 

me  say  a  word  or  two  on  the  plays. 

There  is  no  country  in  which  the  theatre  has  so  great  a 
hold  on  the  public  as  in  France;  no  country  in  which  the 
successful  dramatist  has  so  high  a  fame ;  no  country  perhaps 
in  which  the  state  of  the  stage  so  faithfully  represents  the 
moral  and  intellectual  condition  of  the  people.  I  say  this 
not,  of  course,  from  my  experience  of  countries  which  I  have 
not  visited,  but  from  all  I  hear  of  the  stage  in  Germany  and 
in  England. 

The  impression  left  on  my  mind  by  the  performances  I 
witnessed  is,  that  the  French  people  are  becoming  dwarfed. 
The  comedies  that  please  them  are  but  pleasant  caricatures  of 
petty  sections  in  a  corrupt  society.  They  contain  no  large 
types  of  human  nature ;  their  witticisms  convey  no  luminous 


56  THE  PARISIANS. 

flashes  of  truth;  their  sentiment  is  not  pure  and  noble, —  it  is 
a  sickly  and  false  perversion  of  the  impure  and  ignoble  into 
travesties  of  the  pure  and  noble. 

Their  melodramas  cannot  be  classed  as  literature:  all  that 
really  remains  of  the  old  French  genius  is  its  vaudeville. 

Great  dramatists  create  great  parts.  One  great  part,  such 
as  a  Rachel  would  gladly  have  accepted,  I  have  not  seen  in 
the  dramas  of  the  young  generation. 

High  art  has  taken  refuge  in  the  opera;  but  that  is  not 
French  opera.  I  do  not  complain  so  much  that  French  taste 
is  less  refined.  I  complain  that  French  intellect  is  lowered. 
The  descent  from  "  Polyeucte  "  to  "  Ruy  Bias  "  is  great,  not 
so  much  in  the  poetry  of  form  as  in  the  elevation  of  thought ; 
but  the  descent  from  "  Ruy  Bias  "  to  the  best  drama  now  pro- 
duced is  out  of  poetry  altogether,  and  into  those  flats  of  prose 
which  give  not  even  the  glimpse  of  a  mountain-top. 

But  now  to  the  opera.  S in  Normal  The  house  was 

crowded,  and  its  enthusiasm  as  loud  as  it  was  genuine.  You 

tell  me  that  S never  rivalled  Pasta,  but  certainly  her 

Norma  is  a  great  performance.  Her  voice  has  lost  less  of  its 
freshness  than  I  had  been  told,  and  what  is  lost  of  it  her 
practised  management  conceals  or  carries  off. 

The  Maestro  was  quite  right :  I  could  never  vie  with  her  in 
her  own  line ;  but  conceited  and  vain  as  I  may  seem  even  to 
you  in  saying  so,  I  feel  in  my  own  line  that  I  could  command 
as  large  an  applause, —  of  course  taking  into  account  my  brief  - 
lived  advantage  of  youth.  Her  acting,  apart  from  her  voice, 
does  not  please  me.  It  seems  to  me  to  want  intelligence  of 
the  subtler  feelings,  the  under-current  of  emotion  which  con- 
stitutes the  chief  beauty  of  the  situation  and  the  character. 

Am  I  jealous  when  I  say  this?     Read  on  and  judge. 

On  our  return  that  night,  when  I  had  seen  the  Venosta  to 
bed,  I  went  into  my  own  room,  opened  the  window,  and  looked 
out.  A  lovely  night,  mild  as  in  spring  at  Florence,  —  the 
moon  at  her  full,  and  the  stars  looking  so  calm  and  so  high 
beyond  our  reach  of  their  tranquillity.  The  evergreens  in 
the  gardens  of  the  villas  around  me  silvered  over,  and  the 
summer  boughs,  not  yet  clothed  with  leaves,  were  scarcely 


THE  PARISIANS.  57 

visible  amid  the  changeless  smile  of  the  laurels.  At  the 
distance  lay  Paris,  only  to  be  known  by  its  innumerable 
lights.  And  then  I  said  to  myself, — 

"  No,  I  cannot  be  an  actress ;  I  cannot  resign  my  real  self 
for  that  vamped-up  hypocrite  before  the  lamps.  Out  on 
those  stage-robes  and  painted  cheeks !  Out  on  that  simulated 
utterance  of  sentiments  learned  by  rote  and  practised  before 
the  looking-glass  till  every  gesture  has  its  drill!" 

Then  I  gazed  on  those  stars  which  provoke  our  question- 
ings, and  return  no  answer,  till  my  heart  grew  full, — so 
full, —  and  I  bowed  my  head  and  wept  like  a  child. 


FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

And  still  no  letter  from  you!  I  see  in  the  journals  that 
you  have  left  Nice.  Is  it  that  you  are  too  absorbed  in  your 
work  to  have  leisure  to  write  to  me?  I  know  you  are  not  ill, 
for  if  you  were,  all  Paris  would  know  of  it.  All  Europe  has 
an  interest  in  your  health.  Positively  I  will  write  to  you  no 
more  till  a  word  from  yourself  bids  me  do  so. 

I  fear  I  must  give  up  my  solitary  walks  in  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne:  they  were  very  dear  to  me,  partly  because  the 
quiet  path  to  which  I  confined  myself  was  that  to  which  you 
directed  me  as  the  one  you  habitually  selected  when  at  Paris, 
and  in  which  you  had  brooded  over  and  revolved  the  loveliest 
of  your  romances ;  and  partly  because  it  was  there  that,  catch- 
ing, alas!  not  inspiration  but  enthusiasm  from  the  genius 
that  had  hallowed  the  place,  and  dreaming  I  might  originate 
music,  I  nursed  my  own  aspirations  and  murmured  my  own 
airs.  And  though  so  close  to  that  world  of  Paris  to  which 
all  artists  must  appeal  for  judgment  or  audience,  the  spot  was 
so  undisturbed,  so  sequestered.  But  of  late  that  path  has 
lost  its  solitude,  and  therefore  its  charm. 

Six  days  ago  the  first  person  I  encountered  in  my  walk  was 
a  man  whom  I  did  not  then  heed.  He  seemed  in  thought,  or 
rather  in  re  very,  like  myself;  we  passed  each  other  twice  or 
thrice,  and  I  did  not  notice  whether  he  was  young  or  old,  tall 


58  THE  PARISIANS. 

or  short ;  but  he  came  the  next  day,  and  a  third  day,  and  then 
I  saw  that  he  was  young,  and,  in  so  regarding  him,  his  eyes 
became  fixed  on  mine.  The  fourth  day  he  did  not  come,  but 
two  other  men  came,  and  the  look  of  one  was  inquisitive  and 
offensive.  They  sat  themselves  down  on  a  bench  in  the 
walk,  and  though  I  did  not  seem  to  notice  them,  I  hastened 
home;  and  the  next  day,  in  talking  with  our  kind  Madame 
Savarin,  and  alluding  to  these  quiet  walks  of  mine,  she  hinted, 
with  the  delicacy  which  is  her  characteristic,  that  the  customs 
of  Paris  did  not  allow  demoiselles  comme  il  faut  to  walk  alone 
even  in  the  most  sequestered  paths  of  the  Bois. 

I  begin  now  to  comprehend  your  disdain  of  customs  which 
impose  chains  so  idly  galling  on  the  liberty  of  our  sex. 

We  dined  with  the  Savarins  last  evening:  what  a  joyous 
nature  he  has!  Not  reading  Latin,  I  only  know  Horace  by 
translations,  which  I  am  told  are  bad;  but  Savarin  seems  to 
me  a  sort  of  half  Horace,  —  Horace  on  his  town-bred  side,  so 
playfully  well-bred,  so  good-humoured  in  his  philosophy,  so 
affectionate  to  friends,  and  so  biting  to  foes.  But  certainly 
Savarin  could  not  have  lived  in  a  country  farm  upon  endives 
and  mallows.  He  is  town-bred  and  Parisian,  jusqu)a^i,  bout 
des  angles.  How  he  admires  you,  and  how  I  love  him  for  it! 
Only  in  one  thing  he  disappoints  me  there.  It  is  your  style 
that  he  chiefly  praises :  certainly  that  style  is  matchless ;  but 
style  is  only  the  clothing  of  thought,  and  to  praise  your  style 
seems  to  me  almost  as  invidious  as  the  compliment  to  some 
perfect  beauty,  not  on  her  form  and  face,  but  on  her  taste  and 
dress. 

We  met  at  dinner  an  American  and  his  wife,  —  a  Colonel 
and  Mrs.  Morley:  she  is  delicately  handsome,  as  the  Ameri- 
can women  I  have  seen  generally  are,  and  with  that  frank 
vivacity  of  manner  which  distinguishes  them  from  English 
women.  She  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  me,  and  we  soon 
grew  very  good  friends. 

She  is  the  first  advocate  I  have  met,  except  yourself,  of 
that  doctrine  upon  the  rights  of  Women,  of  which  one  reads 
more  in  the  journals  than  one  hears  discussed  in  salons. 

Naturally  enough  I  felt  great  interest  in  that  subject,  more 


THE   PARISIANS.  59 

especially  since  my  rambles  in  the  Bois  were  forbidden;  and 
as  long  as  she  declaimed  on  the  hard  fate  of  the  women  who, 
feeling  within  them  powers  that  struggle  for  air  and  light  be- 
yond the  close  precinct  of  household  duties,  find  themselves 
restricted  from  fair  rivalry  with  men  in  such  fields  of  knowl- 
edge and  toil  and  glory  as  men  since  the  world  began  have 
appropriated  to  themselves,  I  need  not  say  that  I  went  with 
her  cordially :  you  can  guess  that  by  my  former  letters.  But 
when  she  entered  into  the  detailed  catalogue  of  our  exact 
wrongs  and  our  exact  rights,  I  felt  all  the  pusillanimity  of 
my  sex  and  shrank  back  in  terror. 

Her  husband,  joining  us  when  she  was  in  full  tide  of  elo- 
quence, smiled  at  me  with  a  kind  of  saturnine  mirth.  "  Made- 
moiselle, don't  believe  a  word  she  says:  it  is  only  tall  talk! 
In  America  the  women  are  absolute  tyrants,  and  it  is  I  who, 
in  concert  with  my  oppressed  countrymen,  am  going  in  for  a 
platform  agitation  to  restore  the  Rights  of  Men." 

Upon  this  there  was  a  lively  battle  of  words  between  the 
spouses,  in  which,  I  must  own,  I  thought  the  lady  was 
decidedly  worsted. 

No,  Eulalie,  I  see  nothing  in  these  schemes  for  altering 
our  relations  towards  the  other  sex  which  would  improve  our 
condition.  The  inequalities  we  suffer  are  not  imposed  by 
law,  —  not  even  by  convention:  they  are  imposed  by  nature. 

Eulalie,  you  have  had  an  experience  unknown  to  me :  you 
have  loved.  In  that  day  did  you,  —  you,  round  whom  poets 
and  sages  and  statesmen  gather,  listening  to  your  words  as  to 
an  oracle,  —  did  you  feel  that  your  pride  of  genius  had  gone 
out  from  you,  that  your  ambition  lived  in  whom  you  loved, 
that  his  smile  was  more  to  you  than  the  applause  of  a 
world  ? 

I  feel  as  if  love  in  a  woman  must  destroy  her  rights  of 
equality,  that  it  gives  to  her  a  sovereign  even  in  one  who 
would  be  inferior  to  herself  if  her  love  did  not  glorify  and 
crown  him.  Ah !  if  I  could  but  merge  this  terrible  egotism 
which  oppresses  me,  into  the  being  of  some  one  who  is  what 
I  would  wish  to  be  were  I  man!  I  would  not  ask  him  to 
achieve  fame.  Enough  if  I  felt  that  he  was  worthy  of  it, 


60  THE  PARISIANS. 

and  happier  methinks  to  console  him  when  he  failed  than  to 
triumph  with  him  when  he  won.  Tell  me,  have  you  felt 
this?  When  you  loved  did  you  stoop  as  to  a  slave,  or  did 
you  bow  down  as  to  a  master? 


FROM  MADAME  DE   GRANTMESNIL  TO  ISAURA  CICOGNA. 

Chere  enfant,  —  All  your  four  letters  have  reached  me  the 
same  day.  In  one  of  my  sudden  whims  I  set  off  with  a  few 
friends  on  a  rapid  tour  along  the  Riviera  to  Genoa,  thence  to 
Turin  on  to  Milan.  Not  knowing  where  we  should  rest  even 
for  a  day,  my  letters  were  not  forwarded. 

I  came  back  to  Nice  yesterday,  consoled  for  all  fatigues  in 
having  insured  that  accuracy  in  description  of  localities  which 
my  work  necessitates. 

You  are,  my  poor  child,  in  that  revolutionary  crisis  through 
which  genius  passes  in  youth  before  it  knows  its  own  self, 
and  longs  vaguely  to  do  or  to  be  a  something  other  than  it 
has  done  or  has  been  before.  For,  not  to  be  unjust  to  your 
own  powers,  genius  you  have,  —  that  inborn  undefmable  es- 
sence, including  talent,  and  yet  distinct  from  it.  Genius  you 
have,  but  genius  unconcentrated,  undisciplined.  I  see,  though 
you  are  too  diffident  to  say  so  openly,  that  you  shrink  from 
the  fame  of  singer,  because,  fevered  by  your  reading,  you 
would  fain  aspire  to  the  thorny  crown  of  author.  I  echo  the 
hard  saying  of  the  Maestro :  I  should  be  your  worst  enemy 
did  I  encourage  you  to  forsake  a  career  in  which  a  dazzling 
success  is  so  assured,  for  one  in  which,  if  it  were  your  true 
vocation,  you  would  not  ask  whether  you  were  fit  for  it;  you 
would  be  impelled  to  it  by  the  terrible  star  which  presides 
over  the  birth  of  poets. 

Have  you,  who  are  so  naturally  observant,  and  of  late  have 
become  so  reflective,  never  remarked  that  authors,  however 
absorbed  in  their  own  craft,  do  not  wish  their  children  to 
adopt  it?  The  most  successful  author  is  perhaps  the  last  per- 
son to  whom  neophytes  should  come  for  encouragement.  This 
I  think  is  not  the  case  with  the  cultivators  of  the  sister  arts. 


THE   PARISIANS.  61 

The  painter,  the  sculptor,  the  musician,  seem  disposed  to  in- 
vite disciples  and  welcome  acolytes.  As  for  those  engaged  in 
the  practical  affairs  of  life,  fathers  mostly  wish  their  sons  to 
be  as  they  have  been. 

The  politician,  the  lawyer,  the  merchant,  each  says  to  his 
children,  "Follow  my  steps."  All  parents  in  practical  life 
would  at  least  agree  in  this, — they  would  not  wish  their  sons 
to  be  poets.  There  must  be  some  sound  cause  in  the  world's 
philosophy  for  this  general  concurrence  of  digression  from  a 
road  of  which  the  travellers  themselves  say  to  those  whom 
they  love  best,  "  Beware ! " 

Romance  in  youth  is,  if  rightly  understood,  the  happiest 
nutriment  of  wisdom  in  after-years ;  but  I  would  never  invite 
any  one  to  look  upon  the  romance  of  youth  as  a  thing  — 

"To  case  in  periods  and  embalm  in  ink." 

Enfant,  have  you  need  of  a  publisher  to  create  romance? 
Is  it  not  in  yourself?  Do  not  imagine  that  genius  requires 
for  its  enjoyment  the  scratch  of  the  pen  and  the  types  of  the 
printer.  Do  not  suppose  that  the  poet,  the  romancier,  is  most 
poetic,  most  romantic,  when  he  is  striving,  struggling,  la- 
bouring, to  check  the  rush  of  his  ideas,  and  materialize  the 
images  which  visit  him  as  souls  into  such  tangible  likenesses 
of  flesh  and  blood  that  the  highest  compliment  a  reader  can 
bestow  on  them  is  to  say  that  they  are  lifelike?  No:  the 
poet's  real  delight  is  not  in  the  mechanism  of  composing;  the 
best  part  of  that  delight  is  in  the  sympathies  he  has  estab- 
lished with  innumerable  modifications  of  life  and  form,  and 
art  and  Nature,  sympathies  which  are  often  found  equally 
keen  in  those  who  have  not  the  same  gift  of  language.  The 
poet  is  but  the  interpreter.  What  of?  —  Truths  in  the  hearts 
of  others.  He  utters  what  they  feel.  Is  the  joy  in  the  utter- 
ance? Nay,  it  is  in  the  feeling  itself.  So,  my  dear,  dark- 
bright  child  of  song,  when  I  bade  thee  open,  out  of  the  beaten 
thoroughfare,  paths  into  the  meads  and  river-banks  at  either 
side  of  the  formal  hedgerows,  rightly  dost  thou  add  that  I 
enjoined  thee  to  make  thine  art  thy  companion.  In  the  cult- 
ure of  that  art  for  which  you  are  so  eminently  gifted,  you 


62  THE  PARISIANS. 

wi!l  find  the  ideal  life  ever  beside  the  real.  Are  you  not 
ashamed  to  tell  me  that  in  that  art  you  do  but  utter  the 
thoughts  of  others?  You  utter  them  in  music;  through  the 
music  you  not  only  give  to  the  thoughts  a  new  character,  but 
you  make  them  reproductive  of  fresh  thoughts  in  your 
audience. 

You  said  very  truly  that  you  found  in  composing  you  could 
put  into  music  thoughts  which  you  could  not  put  into  words. 
That  is  the  peculiar  distinction  of  music.  No  genuine  mu- 
sician can  explain  in  words  exactly  what  he  means  to  convey 
in  his  music. 

How  little  a  libretto  interprets  an  opera;  how  little  we  care 
even  to  read  it!  It  is  the  music  that  speaks  to  us;  and  how? 
—  Through  the  human  voice.  We  do  not  notice  how  poor 
are  the  words  which  the  voice  warbles.  It  is  the  voitje  itself 
interpreting  the  soul  of  the  musician  which  enchants  and  en- 
thralls us.  And  you  who  have  that  voice  pretend  to  despise 
the  gift.  What!  despise  the  power  of  communicating  de- 
light!—  the  power  that  we  authors  envy;  and  rarely,  if  ever, 
can  we  give  delight  with  so  little  alloy  as  the  singer. 

And  when  an  audience  disperses,  can  you  guess  what  griefs 
the  singer  may  have  comforted?  what  hard  hearts  he  may 
have  softened?  what  high  thoughts  he  may  have  awakened? 

You  say,  "Out  on  the  vamped-up  hypocrite!  Out  on  the 
stage-robes  and  painted  cheeks!" 

I  say,  "  Out  on  the  morbid  spirit  which  so  cynically  regards 
the  mere  details  by  which  a  whole  effect  on  the  minds  and 
hearts  and  souls  of  races  and  nations  can  be  produced !  " 

There,  have  I  scolded  you  sufficiently?  I  should  scold  you 
more,  if  I  did  not  see  in  the  affluence  of  your  youth  and  your 
intellect  the  cause  of  your  restlessness.  Riches  are  always 
restless.  It  is  only  to  poverty  that  the  gods  give  content. 

You  question  me  about  love ;  you  ask  if  I  have  ever  bowed 
to  a  master,  ever  merged  my  life  in  another's :  expect  no  an- 
swer on  this  from  me.  Circe  herself  could  give  no  answer  to 
the  simplest  maid,  who,  never  having  loved,  asks,  "What  is 
love?  " 

In  the  history  of  the  passions  each  human  heart  is  a  world 


THE   PARISIANS.  63 

in  itself;   its  experience  profits  no  others.     In  no  two  lives 
does  love  play  the  same  part  or  bequeath  the  same  record. 

I  know  not  whether  I  am  glad  or  sorry  that  the  word 
"love"  now  falls  on  my  ear  with  a  sound  as  slight  and  as 
faint  as  the  dropping  of  a  leaf  in  autumn  may  fall  on  thine. 

I  volunteer  but  this  lesson,  the  wisest  I  can  give,  if  thou 
canst  understand  it :  as  I  bade  thee  take  art  into  thy  life,  so 
learn  to  look  on  life  itself  as  an  art.  Thou  couldst  discover 
the  charm  in  Tasso;  thou  couldst  perceive  that  the  requisite 
of  all  art,  that  which  pleases,  is  in  the  harmony  of  propor- 
tion. We  lose  sight  of  beauty  if  we  exaggerate  the  feature 
most  beautiful. 

Love  proportioned  adorns  the  homeliest  existence;  love 
disproportioned  deforms  the  fairest. 

Alas!  wilt  thou  remember  this  warning  when  the  time 
comes  in  which  it  may  be  needed? 

E G . 


BOOK    II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  is  several  weeks  after  the  date  of  the  last  chapter;  the 
lime-trees  in  the  Tuileries  are  clothed  in  green. 

In  a  somewhat  spacious  apartment  on  the  ground-floor  in 
the  quiet  locality  of  the  Rue  d'Anjou,  a  man  was  seated,  very 
still  and  evidently  absorbed  in  deep  thought,  before  a  writ- 
ing-table placed  close  to  the  window. 

Seen  thus,  there  was  an  expression  of  great  power  both  of 
intellect  and  of  character  in  a  face  which,  in  ordinary  social 
commune,  might  rather  be  noticeable  for  an  aspect  of  hardy 
frankness,  suiting  well  with  the  clear-cut,  handsome  profile, 
and  the  rich  dark  auburn  hair,  waving  carelessly  over  one  of 
those  broad  open  foreheads,  which,  according  to  an  old  writer, 
seem  the  "frontispiece  of  a  temple  dedicated  to  Honour." 

The  forehead,  indeed,  was  the  man's  most  remarkable  feat- 
ure. It  could  not  but  prepossess  the  beholder.  When,  in 
private  theatricals,  he  had  need  to  alter  the  character  of  his 
countenance,  he  did  it  effectually,  merely  by  forcing  down  his 
hair  till  it  reached  his  eyebrows.  He  no  longer  then  looked 
like  the  same  man. 

The  person  I  describe  has  been  already  introduced  to  the 
reader  as  Graham  Vane.  But  perhaps  this  is  the  fit  occasion 
to  enter  into  some  such  details  as  to  his  parentage  and  posi- 
tion as  may  make  the  introduction  more  satisfactory  and 
complete. 

His  father,  the  representative  of  a  very  ancient  family, 
came  into  possession,  after  a  long  minority,  of  what  may  be 
called  a  fair  squire's  estate,  and  about  half  a  million  in  mon- 


THE  PARISIANS.  6b 

eyed  investments,  inherited  on  the  female  side.  Both  land 
and  money  were  absolutely  at  his  disposal,  unencumbered  by 
entail  or  settlement.  He  was  a  man  of  a  brilliant,  irregular 
genius,  of  princely  generosity,  of  splendid  taste,  of  a  gorgeous 
kind  of  pride  closely  allied  to  a  masculine  kind  of  vanity.  As 
soon  as  he  was  of  age  he  began  to  build,  converting  his  squire's 
hall  into  a  ducal  palace.  He  then  stood  for  the  county ;  and 
in  days  before  the  first  Reform  Bill,  when  a  county  election 
was  to  the  estate  of  a  candidate  what  a  long  war  is  to  the 
debt  of  a  nation.  He  won  the  election;  he  obtained  early 
successes  in  Parliament.  It  was  said  by  good  authorities  in 
political  circles  that,  if  he  chose,  he  might  aspire  to  lead  his 
party,  and  ultimately  to  hold  the  first  rank  in  the  government 
of  his  country. 

That  may  or  may  not  be  true;  but  certainly  he  did  not 
choose  to  take  the  trouble  necessary  for  such  an  ambition. 
He  was  too  fond  of  pleasure,  of  luxury,  of  pomp.  He  kept  a 
famous  stud  of  racers  and  hunters.  He  was  a  munificent 
patron  of  art.  His  establishments,  his  entertainments,  were 
on  a  par  with  those  of  the  great  noble  who  represented  the 
loftiest  (Mr.  Vane  would  not  own  it  to  be  the  eldest)  branch 
of  his  genealogical  tree. 

He  became  indifferent  to  political  contests,  indolent  in  his 
attendance  at  the  House,  speaking  seldom,  not  at  great  length 
nor  with  much  preparation,  but  with  power  and  fire,  orig- 
inality and  genius;  so  that  he  was  not  only  effective  as  an 
orator,  but  combining  with  eloquence  advantages  of  birth, 
person,  station,  the  reputation  of  patriotic  independence,  and 
genial  attributes  of  character,  he  was  an  authority  of  weight 
in  the  scales  of  party. 

This  gentleman,  at  the  age  of  forty,  married  the  dowerless 
daughter  of  a  poor  but  distinguished  naval  officer,  of  noble 
family,  first  cousin  to  the  Duke  of  Alton. 

He  settled  on  her  a  suitable  jointure,  but  declined  to  tie  up 
any  portion  of  his  property  for  the  benefit  of  children  by  the 
marriage.  He  declared  that  so  much  of  his  fortune  was  in- 
vested either  in  mines,  the  produce  of  which  was  extremely 
fluctuating,  or  in  various  funds,  over  rapid  transfers  in  which 

TOL.    I.  —  5 


66  THE  PARISIANS. 

it  was  his  amusement  and  his  interest  to  have  control,  un- 
checked by  reference  to  trustees,  that  entails  and  settlements 
on  children  were  an  inconvenience  he  declined  to  incur. 

Besides,  he  held  notions  of  his  own  as  to  the  wisdom  of 
keeping  children  dependent  on  their  father.  "What  num- 
bers of  young  men,"  said  he,  "are  ruined  in  character  and  in 
fortune  by  knowing  that  when  their  father  dies  they  are  cer- 
tain of  the  same  provision,  no  matter  how  they  displease  him; 
and  in  the  meanwhile  forestalling  that  provision  by  recourse 
to  usurers."  These  arguments  might  not  have  prevailed  over 
the  bride's  father  a  year  or  two  later,  when,  by  the  death  of 
intervening  kinsmen,  he  became  Duke  of  Alton;  but  in  his 
then  circumstances  the  marriage  itself  was  so  much  beyond 
the  expectations  which  the  portionless  daughter  of  a  sea-cap- 
tain has  the  right  to  form  that  Mr.  Vane  had  it  all  his  own 
way,  and  he  remained  absolute  master  of  his  whole  fortune, 
save  of  that  part  of  his  landed  estate  on  which  his  wife's 
jointure  was  settled;  and  even  from  this  incumbrance  he  was 
very  soon  freed.  His  wife  died  in  the  second  year  of  mar- 
riage, leaving  an  only  son, —  Graham.  He  grieved  for  her 
loss  with  all  the  passion  of  an  impressionable,  ardent,  and 
powerful  nature.  Then  for  a  while  he  sought  distraction  to 
his  sorrow  by  throwing  himself  into  public  life  with  a  devoted 
energy  he  had  not  previously  displayed. 

His  speeches  served  to  bring  his  party  into  power,  and  he 
yielded,  though  reluctantly,  to  the  unanimous  demand  of  that 
party  that  he  should  accept  one  of  the  highest  offices  in  the 
new  Cabinet.  He  acquitted  himself  well  as  an  administrator, 
but  declared,  no  doubt  honestly,  that  he  felt  like  Sinbad  re- 
leased from  the  old  man  on  his  back,  when,  a  year  or  two 
afterwards,  he  went  out  of  office  with  his  party.  ]STo  persua- 
sions could  induce  him  to  come  in  again;  nor  did  he  ever  again 
take  a  very  active  part  in  debate.  "No,"  said  he,  "I  was 
born  to  the  freedom  of  a  private  gentleman:  intolerable  to 
me  is  the  thraldom  of  a  public  servant.  But  I  will  bring  up 
my  son  so  that  he  may  acquit  the  debt  which  I  decline  to  pay 
to  my  country. "  There  he  kept  his  word.  Graham  had  been 
carefully  educated  for  public  life,  the  ambition  for  it  dinned 


THE  PARISIANS.  67 

into  his  ear  from  childhood.  In  his  school  vacations  his 
father  made  him  learn  and  declaim  chosen  specimens  of  mas- 
culine oratory;  engaged  an  eminent  actor  to  give  him  lessons 
in  elocution;  bade  him  frequent  theatres,  and  study  there  the 
effect  which  words  derive  from  looks  and  gesture ;  encouraged 
him  to  take  part  himself  in  private  theatricals.  To  all  this 
the  boy  lent  his  mind  with  delight.  He  had  the  orator's  in- 
born temperament;  quick,  yet  imaginative,  and  loving  the 
sport  of  rivalry  and  contest.  Being  also,  in  his  boyish  years, 
good-humoured  and  joyous,  he  was  not  more  a  favourite  with 
the  masters  in  the  schoolroom  than  with  the  .boys  in  the 
play-ground.  Leaving  Eton  at  seventeen,  he  then  entered  at 
Cambridge,  and  became,  in  his  first  term,  the  most  popular 
speaker  at  the  Union. 

But  his  father  cut  short  his  academical  career,  and  decided, 
for  reasons  of  his  own,  to  place  him  at  once  in  diplomacy. 
He  was  attached  to  the  Embassy  at  Paris,  and  partook  of  the 
pleasures  and  dissipations  of  that  metropolis  too  keenly  to 
retain  much  of  the  sterner  ambition  to  which  he  had  before 
devoted  himself.  Becoming  one  of  the  spoiled  darlings  of 
fashion,  there  was  great  danger  that  his  character  would  re- 
lax into  the  easy  grace  of  the  Epicurean,  when  all  such  loiter- 
ings  in  the  Rose  Garden  were  brought  to  abrupt  close  by  a 
rude  and  terrible  change  in  his  fortunes. 

His  father  was  killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse  in  hunting ; 
and  when  his  affairs  were  investigated,  they  were  found  to  be 
hopelessly  involved:  apparently  the  assets  would  not  suffice 
for  the  debts.  The  elder  Vane  himself  was  probably  not 
aware  of  the  extent  of  his  liabilities.  He  had  never  wanted 
ready  money  to  the  last.  He  could  always  obtain  that  from 
a  money-lender,  or  from  the  sale  of  his  funded  investments. 
But  it  became  obvious,  on  examining  his  papers,  that  he  knew 
at  least  how  impaired  would  be  the  heritage  he  should  be- 
queath to  a  son  whom  he  idolized.  For  that  reason  he  had 
given  Graham  a  profession  in  diplomacy,  and  for  that  reason 
he  had  privately  applied  to  the  Ministry  for  the  Yiceroyalty 
of  India,  in  the  event  of  its  speedy  vacancy.  He  was  emi- 
nent enough  not  to  anticipate  refusal,  and  with  economy  in 


68  THE  PARISIANS. 

that  lucrative  post  much  of  his  pecuniary  difficulties  might 
have  been  redeemed,  and  at  least  an  independent  provision 
secured  for  his  son. 

Graham,  like  Alain  de  Eochebriant,  allowed  no  reproach 
on  his  father's  memory;  indeed,  with  more  reason  than 
Alain,  for  the  elder  Vane's  fortune  had  at  least  gone  on  no 
mean  and  frivolous  dissipation. 

It  had  lavished  itself  on  encouragement  to  art,  on  great 
objects  of  public  beneficence,  on  public-spirited  aid  of  politi- 
cal objects ;  and  even  in  mere  selfish  enjoyments  there  was  a 
certain  grandeur  in  his  princely  hospitalities,  in  his  munifi- 
cent generosity,  in  a  warm-hearted  carelessness  for  money. 
No  indulgence  in  petty  follies  or  degrading  vices  aggravated 
the  offence  of  the  magnificent  squanderer. 

"Let  me  look  on  my  loss  of  fortune  as  a  gain  to  myself," 
said  Graham,  manfully.  "  Had  I  been  a  rich  man,  my  expe- 
rience of  Paris  tells  me  that  I  should  most  likely  have  been 
a  very  idle  one.  Now  that  I  have  no  gold,  I  must  dig  in 
myself  for  iron." 

The  man  to  whom  he  said  this  was  an  uncle-in -law, —  if  I 
may  use  that  phrase, — the  Eight  Hon.  Eichard  King,  popu- 
larly styled  "the  blameless  King." 

This  gentleman  had  married  the  sister  of  Graham's  mother, 
whose  loss  in  his  infancy  and  boyhood  she  had  tenderly  and 
anxiously  sought  to  supply.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a 
woman  more  fitted  to  invite  love  and  reverence  than  was 
Lady  Janet  King,  her  manners  were  so  sweet  and  gentle,  her 
whole  nature  so  elevated  and  pure. 

Her  father  had  succeeded  to  the  dukedom  when  she  married 
Mr.  King,  and  the  alliance  was  not  deemed  quite  suitable. 
Still  it  was  not  one  to  which  the  Duke  would  have  been  fairly 
justified  in  refusing  his  assent. 

Mr.  King  could  not  indeed  boast  of  noble  ancestry,  nor  was 
even  a  landed  proprietor;  but  he  was  a  not  undistinguished 
member  of  Parliament,  of  irreproachable  character,  and  ample 
fortune  inherited  from  a  distant  kinsman,  who  had  enriched 
himself  as  a  merchant.  It  was  on  both  sides  a  marriage  of 
love. 


THE  PARISIANS.  69 

It  is  popularly  said  that  a  man  uplifts  a  wife  to  his  own 
rank :  it  as  often  happens  that  a  woman  uplifts  her  husband  to 
the  dignity  of  her  own  character.  Richard  King  rose  greatly 
in  public  estimation  after  his  marriage  with  Lady  Janet. 

She  united  to  a  sincere  piety  a  very  active  and  a  very  en- 
lightened benevolence.  She  guided  his  ambition  aside  from 
mere  party  politics  into  subjects  of  social  and  religious  inter- 
est, and  in  devoting  himself  to  these  he  achieved  a  position 
more  popular  and  more  respected  than  he  could  ever  have 
won  in  the  strife  of  party. 

When  the  Government  of  which  the  elder  Vane  became  a 
leading  Minister  was  formed,  it  was  considered  a  great  object 
to  secure  a  name  as  high  in  the  religious  world,  so  beloved  by 
the  working  classes,  as  that  of  Richard  King ;  and  he  accepted 
one  of  those  places  which,  though  not  in  the  cabinet,  confers 
the  rank  of  Privy  Councillor. 

When  that  brief-lived  Administration  ceased,  he  felt  the 
same  sensation  of  relief  that  Vane  had  felt,  and  came  to  the 
same  resolution  never  again  to  accept  office,  but  from  different 
reasons,  all  of  which  need  not  now  be  detailed.  Amongst 
them,  however,  certainly  this:  he  was  exceedingly  sensitive 
to  opinion,  thin-skinned  as  to  abuse,  and  very  tenacious  of 
the  respect  due  to  his  peculiar  character  of  sanctity  and  phil- 
anthropy. He  writhed  under  every  newspaper  article  that 
had  made  "the  blameless  King"  responsible  for  the  iniqui- 
ties of  the  Government  to  which  he  belonged.  In  the  loss  of 
office  he  seemed  to  recover  his  former  throne. 

Mr.  King  heard  Graham's  resolution  with  a  grave  approv- 
ing smile,  and  his  interest  in  the  young  man  became  greatly 
increased.  He  devoted  himself  strenuously  to  the  object  of 
saving  to  Graham  some  wrecks  of  his  paternal  fortunes,  and 
having  a  clear  head  and  great  experience  in  the  transaction 
of  business,  he  succeeded  beyond  the  most  sanguine  expecta- 
tions formed  by  the  family  solicitor.  A  rich  manufacturer 
was  found  to  purchase  at  a  fancy  price  the  bulk  of  the  estate 
with  the  palatial  mansion,  which  the  estate  alone  could  never 
have  sufficed  to  maintain  with  suitable  establishments. 

So  that  when  all  debts  were  paid,  Graham  found  himself  in 


70  THE  PARISIANS. 

possession  of  a  clear  income  of  about  £500  a  year,  invested 
in  a  mortgage  secured  on  a  part  of  the  hereditary  lands,  on 
which  was  seated  an  old  hunting-lodge  bought  by  a  brewer. 

With  this  portion  of  the  property  Graham  parted  very  re- 
luctantly. It  was  situated  amid  the  most  picturesque  scenery 
on  the  estate,  and  the  lodge  itself  was  a  remnant  of  the  origi- 
nal residence  of  his  ancestors  before  it  had  been  abandoned 
for  that  which,  built  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  had  been  ex- 
panded into  a  Trentham-like  palace  by  the  last  owner. 

But  Mr.  King's  argument  reconciled  him  to  the  sacrifice. 
"I  can  manage,"  said  the  prudent  adviser,  "if  you  insist  on 
it,  to  retain  that  remnant  of  the  hereditary  estate  which  you 
are  so  loath  to  part  with.  But  how?  by  mortgaging  it  to  an 
extent  that  will  scarcely  leave  you  £50  a  year  net  from  the 
rents.  This  is  not  all.  Your  mind  will  then  be  distracted 
from  the  large  object  of  a  career  to  the  small  object  of  retain- 
ing a  few  family  acres ;  you  will  be  constantly  hampered  by 
private  anxieties  and  fears;  you  could  do  nothing  for  the 
benefit  of  those  around  you,  —  could  not  repair  a  farmhouse 
for  a  better  class  of  tenant,  could  not  rebuild  a  labourer's 
dilapidated  cottage.  Give  up  an  idea  that  might  be  very  well 
for  a  man  whose  sole  ambition  was  to  remain  a  squire,  how- 
ever beggarly.  Launch  yourself  into  the  larger  world  of  met- 
ropolitan life  with  energies  wholly  unshackled,  a  mind  wholly 
undisturbed,  and  secure  of  an  income  whidh,  however  modest, 
is  equal  to  that  of  most  young  men  who  enter  that  world  as 
your  equals." 

Graham  was  convinced,  and  yielded,  though  with  a  bitter 
pang.  It  is  hard  for  a  man  whose  fathers  have  lived  on  the 
soil  to  give  up  all  trace  of  their  whereabouts.  But  none  saw 
in  him  any  morbid  consciousness  of  change  of  fortune,  when, 
a  year  after  his  father's  death,  he  reassumecl  his  place  in  so- 
ciety. If  before  courted  for  his  expectations,  he  was  still 
courted  for  himself;  by  many  of  the  great  who  had  loved  his 
father,  perhaps  even  courted  more. 

He  resigned  the  diplomatic  career,  not  merely  because  the 
rise  in  that  profession  is  slow,  and  in  the  intermediate  steps 
the  chances  of  distinction  are  slight  and  few,  but  more  be- 


THE  PARISIANS.  71 

cause  he  desired  to  cast  his  lot  in  the  home  country,  and 
regarded  the  courts  of  other  lands  as  exile. 

It  was  not  true,  however,  as  Lemercier  had  stated  on  re- 
port, that  he  lived  on  his  pen.  Curbing  all  his  old  extrava- 
gant tastes,  £500  a  year  amply  supplied  his  wants.  But  he 
had  by  his  pen  gained  distinction,  and  created  great  belief  in 
his  abilities  for  a  public  career.  He  had  written  critical  ar- 
ticles, read  with  much  praise,  in  periodicals  of  authority,  and 
had  published  one  or  two  essays  on  political  questions  which 
had  created  yet  more  sensation.  It  was  only  the  graver  lit- 
erature, connected  more  or  less  with  his  ultimate  object  of  a 
public  career,  in  which  he  had  thus  evinced  his  talents  of 
composition.  Such  writings  were  not  of  a  nature  to  bring 
him  much  money,  but  they  gave  him  a  definite  and  solid 
station.  In  the  old  time,  before  the  first  Reform  Bill,  his 
reputation  would  have  secured  him  at  once  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment; but  the  ancient  nurseries  of  statesmen  are  gone,  and 
their  place  is  not  supplied. 

He  had  been  invited,  however,  to  stand  for  more  than  one 
large  and  populous  borough,  with  very  fair  prospects  of  suc- 
cess; and,  whatever  the  expense,  Mr.  King  had  offered  to 
defray  it.  But  Graham  would  not  have  incurred  the  latter 
obligation;  and  when  he  learned  the  pledges  which  his  sup- 
porters would  have  exacted,  he  would  not  have  stood  if  suc- 
cess had  been  certain  and  the  cost  nothing.  "  I  cannot, "  he 
said  to  his  friends,  "  go  into  the  consideration  of  what  is  best 
for  the  country  with  my  thoughts  manacled ;  and  I  cannot  be 
both  representative  and  slave  of  the  greatest  ignorance  of  the 
greatest  number.  I  bide  my  time,  and  meanwhile  I  prefer 
to  write  as  I  please,  rather  than  vote  as  I  don't  please." 

Three  years  went  by,  passed  chiefly  in  England,  partly  in 
travel;  and  at  the  age  of  thirty,  Graham  Vane  was  still  one 
of  those  of  whom  admirers  say,  "He  will  be  a  great  man 
some  day;"  and  detractors  reply,  "Some  day  seems  a  long 
way  off." 

The  same  fastidiousness  which  had  operated  against  that 
entrance  into  Parliament,  to  which  his  ambition  not  the  less 
steadily  adapted  itself,  had  kept  him  free  from  the  perils  of 


72  THE  PARISIANS. 

wedlock.  In  his  heart  he  yearned  for  love  and  domestic  life, 
but  he  had  hitherto  met  with  no  one  who  realized  the  ideal 
he  had  formed.  With  his  person,  his  accomplishments,  his 
connections,  and  his  repute,  he  might  have  made  many  an 
advantageous  marriage.  But  somehow  or  other  the  charm 
vanished  from  a  fair  face,  if  the  shadow  of  a  money-bag  fell 
on  it;  on  the  other  hand,  his  ambition  occupied  so  large  a 
share  in  his  thoughts  that  he  would  have  fled  in  time  from 
the  temptation  of  a  marriage  that  would  have  overweighted 
him  beyond  the  chance  of  rising.  Added  to  all,  he  desired 
in  a  wife  an  intellect  that,  if  not  equal  to  his  own,  could  be- 
come so  by  sympathy,  —  a  union  of  high  culture  and  noble  as- 
piration, and  yet  of  loving  womanly  sweetness  which  a  man 
seldom  finds  out  of  books ;  and  when  he  does  find  it,  perhaps 
it  does  not  wear  the  sort  of  face  that  he  fancies.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  Graham  was  still  unmarried  and  heart-whole. 

And  now  a  new  change  in  his  life  befell  him.  Lady  Janet 
died  of  a  fever  contracted  in  her  habitual  rounds  of  charity 
among  the  houses  of  the  poor.  She  had  been  to  him  as  the 
most  tender  mother,  and  a  lovelier  soul  than  hers  never 
alighted  on  the  earth.  His  grief  was  intense;  but  what  was 
her  husband's?  —  one  of  those  griefs  that  kill. 

To  the  side  of  Richard  King  his  Janet  had  been  as  the 
guardian  angel.  His  love  for  her  was  almost  worship :  with 
her,  every  object  in  a  life  hitherto  so  active  and  useful 
seemed  gone.  He  evinced  no  noisy  passion  of  sorrow.  He 
shut  himself  up,  and  refused  to  see  even  Graham.  But  after 
some  weeks  had  passed,  he  admitted  the  clergyman  in  whom 
on  spiritual  matters  he  habitually  confided,  and  seemed  con- 
soled by  the  visits ;  then  he  sent  for  his  lawyer  and  made  his 
will;  after  which  he  allowed  Graham  to  call  on  him  daily, 
on  the  condition  that  there  should  be  no  reference  to  his  loss. 
He  spoke  to  the  young  man  on  other  subjects,  rather  drawing 
him  out  about  himself,  sounding  his  opinion  on  various  grave 
matters,  watching  his  face  while  he  questioned,  as  if  seeking 
to  dive  into  his  heart,  and  sometimes  pathetically  sinking  into 
silence,  broken  but  by  sighs.  So  it  went  on  for  a  few  more 
weeks ;  then  he  took  the  advice  of  his  physician  to  seek  change 


THE  PARISIANS.  73 

of  air  and  scene.  He  went  away  alone,  without  even  a  servant, 
not  leaving  word  where  he  had  gone.  After  a  little  while  he 
returned,  more  ailing,  more  broken  than  before.  One  morning 
he  was  found  insensible, —  stricken  by  paralysis.  He  regained 
consciousness,  and  even  for  some  days  rallied  strength.  He 
might  have  recovered,  but  he  seemed  as  if  he  tacitly  refused  to 
live.  He  expired  at  last,  peacefully,  in  Graham's  arms. 

At  the  opening  of  his  will  it  was  found  that  he  had  left 
Graham  his  sole  heir  and  executor.  Deducting  government 
duties,  legacies  to  servants,  and  donations  to  public  charities, 
the  sum  thus  bequeathed  to  his  lost  wife's  nephew  was  two 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  pounds. 

With  such  a  fortune,  opening  indeed  was  made  for  an  am- 
bition so  long  obstructed.  But  Graham  affected  no  change  in 
his  mode  of  life;  he  still  retained  his  modest  bachelor's  apart- 
ments, engaged  no  servants,  bought  no  horses,  in  no  way  ex- 
ceeded the  income  he  had  posesssed  before.  He  seemed, 
indeed,  depressed  rather  than  elated  by  the  succession  to  a 
wealth  which  he  had  never  anticipated. 

Two  children  had  been  born  from  the  marriage  of  Eichard 
King:  they  had  died  young,  it  is  true,  but  Lady  Janet  at  the 
time  of  her  own  decease  was  not  too  advanced  in  years  for  the 
reasonable  expectation  of  other  offspring;  and  even  after 
Eichard  King  became  a  widower,  he  had  given  to  Graham  no 
hint  of  his  testamentary  dispositions.  The  young  man  was  no 
blood-relation  to  him,  and  naturally  supposed  that  such  rela- 
tions would  become  the  heirs.  But  in  truth  the  deceased  seemed 
to  have  no  blood-relations :  none  had  ever  been  known  to  visit 
him;  none  raised  a  voice  to  question  the  justice  of  his  will. 

Lady  Janet  had  been  buried  at  Kensal  Green;  her  hus- 
band's remains  were  placed  in  the  same  vault. 

For  days  and  days  Graham  went  his  way  lonelily  to  the 
cemetery.  He  might  be  seen  standing  motionless  by  that 
tomb,  with  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks ;  yet  his  was  not  a 
weak  nature, — not  one  of  those  that  love  indulgence  of  irre- 
mediable grief.  On  the  contrary,  people  who  did  not  know 
him  well  said  "that  he  had  more  head  than  heart,"  and  the 
character  of  his  pursuits,  as  of  his  writings,  was  certainly  not 


74  THE  PARISIANS. 

that  of  a  sentimentalist.  He  had  not  thus  visited  the  tomb 
till  Richard  King  had  been  placed  within  it.  Yet  his  love 
for  his  aunt  was  unspeakably  greater  than  that  which  he 
could  have  felt  for  her  husband.  Was  it,  then,  the  husband 
that  he  so  much  more  acutely  mourned;  or  was  there  some- 
thing that,  since  the  husband's  death,  had  deepened  his  rev- 
erence for  the  memory  of  her  whom  he  had  not  only  loved  as 
a  mother,  but  honoured  as  a  saint? 

These  visits  to  the  cemetery  did  not  cease  till  Graham  was 
confined  to  his  bed  by  a  very  grave  illness, — the  only  one  he 
had  ever  known.  His  physician  said  it  was  nervous  fever, 
and  occasioned  by  moral  shock  or  excitement ;  it  was  attended 
with  delirium.  His  recovery  was  slow,  and  when  it  was  suffi- 
ciently completed  he  quitted  England;  and  we  find  him  now, 
with  his  mind  composed,  his  strength  restored,  and  his  spirits 
braced,  in  that  gay  city  of  Paris ;  hiding,  perhaps,  some  ear- 
nest purpose  amid  his  participation  in  its  holiday  enjoyments. 
He  is  now,  as  I  have  said,  seated  before  his  writing-table  in 
deep  thought.  He  takes  up  a  letter  which  he  had  already 
glanced  over  hastily,  and  reperuses  it  with  more  care. 

The  letter  is  from  his  cousin,  the  Duke  of  Alton,  who  had 
succeeded  a  few  years  since  to  the  family  honours, — an  able 
man,  with  no  small  degree  of  information,  an  ardent  politi- 
cian, but  of  very  rational  and  temperate  opinions ;  too  much 
occupied  by  the  cares  of  a  princely  estate  to  covet  office  for 
himself;  too  sincere  a  patriot  not  to  desire  office  for  those  to 
whose  hands  he  thought  the  country  might  be  most  safely  en- 
trusted; an  intimate  friend  of  Grahams.  The  contents  of 
the  letter  are  these:  — 

MY  DEAR  GRAHAM,  —  I  trust  that  you  will  welcome  the  brilliant 
opening  into  public  life  which  these  lines  are  intended  to  announce  to 
you.  Vavasour  has  just  been  with  me  to  say  that  he  intends  to  resign 
his  seat  for  the  county  when  Parliament  meets,  and  agreeing  with  me 
that  there  is  no  one  so  fit  to  succeed  him  as  yourself,  he  suggests  the 
keeping  his  intention  secret  until  you  have  arranged  your  committee 
and  are  prepared  to  take  the  field.  You  cannot  hope  to  escape  a  con- 
test ;  but  I  have  examined  the  Register,  and  the  party  has  gained  rather 
than  lost  since  the  last  election,  when  Vavasour  was  so  triumphantly 


THE  PARISIANS.  75 

returned.  The  expenses  for  this  county,  where  there  are  so  many  out- 
voters to  hring  up,  and  so  many  agents  to  retain,  are  always  large  in 
comparison  with  some  other  counties ;  but  that  consideration  is  all  in 
your  favour,  for  it  deters  Squire  Hunston,  the  only  man  who  could  beat 
you,  from  starting ;  and  to  your  resources  a  thousand  pounds  more  or 
less  are  a  trifle  not  worth  discussing.  You  know  how  difficult  it  is  now- 
adays to  find  a  seat  for  a  man  of  moderate  opinions  like  yours  and  mine. 
Our  county  would  exactly  suit  you.  The  constituency  is  so  evenly 
divided  between  the  urban  and  rural  populations,  that  its  representative 
must  fairly  consult  the  interests  of  both.  He  can  be  neither  an  ultra- 
Tory  nor  a  violent  Radical.  He  is  left  to  the  enviable  freedom,  to 
which  you  say  you  aspire,  of  considering  what  is  best  for  the  country 
as  a  whole. 

Do  not  lose  so  rare  an  opportunity.  There  is  but  one  drawback  to 
your  triumphant  candidature.  It  will  be  said  that  you  have  no  longer 
an  acre  in  the  county  in  which  the  Vanes  have  been  settled  so  long. 
That  drawback  can  be  removed.  It  is  true  that  you  can  never  hope  to 
buy  back  the  estates  which  you  were  compelled  to  sell  at  your  father's 
death  :  the  old  manufacturer  gripes  them  too  firmly  to  loosen  his  hold  ; 
and  after  all,  even  were  your  income  double  what  it  is,  you  would  be 
overhoused  in  the  vast  pile  in  which  your  father  buried  so  large  a  share 
of  his  fortune.  But  that  beautiful  old  hunting-lodge,  the  Stamm  Schloss 
of  your  family,  with  the  adjacent  farms,  can  be  now  repurchased  very 
reasonably.  The  brewer  who  bought  them  is  afflicted  with  an  extrava- 
gant son,  whom  he  placed  in  the Hussars,  and  will  gladly  sell  the 

property  for  £5,000  more  than  he  gave  :  well  worth  the  difference,  as 
he  has  improved  the  farm-buildings  and  raised  the  rental.  I  think,  in 
addition  to  the  sum  you  have  on  mortgage,  £23,000  will  be  accepted, 
and  as  a  mere  investment  pay  you  neai-ly  three  per  cent.  But  to  you  it 
is  worth  more  than  double  the  money ;  it  once  more  identifies  your 
ancient  name  with  the  county.  You  would  be  a  greater  personage  with 
that  moderate  holding  in  the  district  in  which  your  race  took  root,  and 
on  which  your  father's  genius  threw  such  a  lustre,  than  you  would  be  if 
you  invested  all  your  wealth  in  a  county  in  which  every  squire  and 
farmer  would  call  you  "  the  new  man."  Pray  think  over  this  most 
seriously,  and  instruct  your  solicitor  to  open  negotiations  with  the 
brewer  at  once.  But  rather  put  yourself  into  the  train,  and  come  back 
to  England  straight  to  me.  I  will  ask  Vavasour  to  meet  you.  What 
news  from  Paris  ?  Is  the  Emperor  as  ill  as  the  papers  insinuate  ?  And 
is  the  revolutionary  party  gaining  ground  ? 

Your  affectionate  cousin, 

ALTON. 


76  THE   PARISIANS. 

As  he  put  down  this  letter,  Graham  heaved  a  short  impatient 
sigh. 

"The  old  Stamm  Schloss,"  he  muttered, —  "a  foot  on  the 
old  soil  once  more !  and  an  entrance  into  the  great  arena  with 
hands  unfettered.  Is  it  possible !  —  is  it?  —  is  it?  " 

At  this  moment  the  door-bell  of  the  apartment  rang,  and  a 
servant  whom  Graham  had  hired  at  Paris  as  a  laquais  de  place 
announced  "  Ce  Monsieur." 

Graham  hurried  the  letter  into  his  portfolio,  and  said, 
"You  mean  the  person  to  whom  I  am  always  at  home?" 

"The  same,  Monsieur." 

"Admit  him,  of  course." 

There  entered  a  wonderfully  thin  man,  middle-aged,  clothed 
in  black,  his  face  cleanly  shaven,  his  hair  cut  very  short, 
with  one  of  those  faces  which,  to  use  a  French  expression, 
say  "nothing."  It  was  absolutely  without  expression :  it  had 
not  even,  despite  its  thinness,  one  salient  feature.  If  you 
had  found  yourself  anywhere  seated  next  to  that  man,  your 
eye  would  have  passed  him  over  as  too  insignificant  to  notice; 
if  at  a  cafe,  you  would  have  gone  on  talking  to  your  friend 
without  lowering  your  voice.  What  mattered  it  whether  a 
bete  like  that  overheard  or  not?  Had  you  been  asked  to  guess 
his  calling  and  station,  you  might  have  said,  minutely  observ- 
ing the  freshness  of  his  clothes  and  the  undeniable  respecta- 
bility of  his  tout  ensemble,  "He  must  be  well  off,  and  with 
no  care  for  customers  on  his  mind,  —  a  ci-devant  chandler 
who  has  retired  on  a  legacy." 

Graham  rose  at  the  entrance  of  his  visitor,  motioned  him 
courteously  to  a  seat  beside  him,  and  waiting  till  the  laquais 
had  vanished,  then  asked,  "What  news?" 

"Xone,  I  fear,  that  will  satisfy  Monsieur.  I  have  certainly 
hunted  out,  since  I  had  last  the  honour  to  see  you,  no  less 
than  four  ladies  of  the  name  of  Duval,  but  only  one  of  them 
took  that  name  from  her  parents,  and  was  also  christened 
Louise." 

"Ah  — Louise!" 

"Yes,  the  daughter  of  a  perfumer,  aged  twenty-eight. 
She,  therefore,  is  not  the  Louise  you  seek.  Permit  me  to 


THE  PARISIANS.  77 

refer  to  your  instructions."  Here  M.  Eenard  took  out  a 
note-book,  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  resumed,  "Wanted, 
Louise  Duval,  daughter  of  Auguste  Duval,  a  French  drawing- 
master,  who  lived  for  many  years  at  Tours,  removed  to  Paris 

in  1845,  lived  at  No.  12,  Eue  de  S at  Paris  for  some 

years,  but  afterwards  moved  to  a  different  quartier  of  the 

town,  and  died  1848,  in  Rue  L ,  No.  39.  Shortly  after 

his  death,  his  daughter  Louise  left  that  lodging,  and  could 
not  be  traced.  In  1849  official  documents  reporting  her  death 
were  forwarded  from  Munich  to  a  person  (a  friend  of  yours, 
Monsieur).  Death,  of  course,  taken  for  granted;  but  nearly 
five  years  afterwards,  this  very  person  encountered  the  said 
Louise  Duval  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  and  never  heard  nor  saw 
more  of  her.  Demands  submitted,  to  find  out  said  Louise 
Duval  or  any  children  of  hers  born  in  1848-9;  supposed  in 
1852-3  to  have  one  child,  a  girl,  between  four  and  five  years 
old.  Is  that  right,  Monsieur?  " 

"Quite  right." 

"  And  this  is  the  whole  information  given  to  me.  Monsieur 
on  giving  it  asked  me  if  I  thought  it  desirable  that  he  should 
commence  inquiries  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  where  Louise  Duval 
was  last  seen  by  the  person  interested  to  discover  her.  I 
reply,  No;  pains  thrown  away.  Aix-la-Chapelle  is  not  a 
place  where  any  Frenchwoman  not  settled  there  by  marriage 
would  remain.  Nor  does  it  seem  probable  that  the  said 
Duval  would  venture  to  select  for  her  residence  Munich,  a 
city  in  which  she  had  contrived  to  obtain  certificates  of  her 
death.  A  Frenchwoman  who  has  once  known  Paris  always 
wants  to  get  back  to  it;  especially,  Monsieur,  if  she  has  the 
beauty  which  you  assign  to  this  lady.  I  therefore  suggested 
that  our  inquiries  should  commence  in  this  capital.  Monsieur 
agreed  with  me,  and  I  did  not  grudge  the  time  necessary  for 
investigation." 

"  You  were  most  obliging.  Still  I  am  beginning  to  be  im- 
patient if  time  is  to  be  thrown  away." 

"  Naturally.  Permit  me  to  return  to  my  notes.  Monsieur 
informs  me  that  twenty-one  years  ago,  in  1848,  the  Parisian 
police  were  instructed  to  find  out  this  lady  and  failed,  but 


78  THE   PARISIANS. 

gave  hopes  of  discovering  her  through  her  relations.  He 
asks  me  to  refer  to  our  archives ;  I  tell  him  that  is  no  use. 
However,  in  order  to  oblige  him,  I  do  so.  No  trace  of  such 
inquiry :  it  must  have  been,  as  Monsieur  led  me  to  suppose, 
a  strictly  private  one,  unconnected  with  crime  or  with  poli- 
tics ;  and  as  I  have  the  honour  to  tell  Monsieur,  no  record  of 
such  investigations  is  preserved  in  our  office.  Great  scandal 
would  there  be,  and  injury  to  the  peace  of  families,  if  we 
preserved  the  results  of  private  inquiries  intrusted  to  us  —  by 
absurdly  jealous  husbands,  for  instance.  Honour,  Monsieur, 
honour  forbids  it.  Next  I  suggest  to  Monsieur  that  his  sim- 
plest plan  would  be  an  advertisement  in  the  French  journals, 
stating,  if  I  understand  him  right,  that  it  is  for  the  pecuniary 
interest  of  Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval,  daughter  of  Au- 
guste  Duval,  artiste  en  dessin,  to  come  forward.  Monsieur 
objects  to  that." 

"I  object  to  it  extremely;  as  I  have  told  you,  this  is  a 
strictly  confidential  inquiry ;  and  an  advertisement  which  in 
all  likelihood  would  be  practically  useless  (it  proved  to  be 
so  in  a  former  inquiry)  would  not  be  resorted  to  unless  all 
else  failed,  and  even  then  with  reluctance." 

"Quite  so.  Accordingly,  Monsieur  delegates  to  me,  who 
have  been  recommended  to  him  as  the  best  person  he  can  em- 
ploy in  that  department  of  our  police  which  is  not  connected 
with  crime  or  political  surveillance,  a  task  the  most  difficult. 
I  have,  through  strictly  private  investigations,  to  discover 
the  address  and  prove  the  identity  of  a  lady  bearing  a  name 
among  the  most  common  in  France,  and  of  whom  nothing 
has  been  heard  for  fifteen  years,  and  then  at  so  migratory  an 
endroit  as  Aix-la-Chapelle.  You  will  not  or  cannot  inform 
me  if  since  that  time  the  lady  has  changed  her  name  by 
marriage." 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  think  that  she  has ;  and  there  are  rea- 
sons against  the  supposition  that  she  married  after  1849." 

"  Permit  me  to  observe  that  the  more  details  of  information 
Monsieur  can  give  me,  the  easier  my  task  of  research  will  be." 

"  I  have  given  you  all  the  details  I  can,  and,  aware  of  the 
difficulty  of  tracing  a  person  with  a  name  so  much  the  reverse 


THE  PARISIANS.  79 

of  singular,  I  adopted  your  advice  in  our  first  interview,  of 
asking  some  Parisian  friend  of  mine,  with  a  large  acquaint- 
ance in  the  miscellaneous  societies  of  your  capital,  to  inform 
me  of  any  ladies  of  that  name  whom  he  might  chance  to  en- 
counter; and  he,  like  you,  has  lighted  upon  one  or  two,  who, 
alas!  resemble  the  right  one  in  name  and  nothing  more." 

"You  will  do  wisely  to  keep  him  on  the  watch  as  well  as 
myself.  If  it  were  but  a  murderess  or  a  political  incendiary, 
then  you  might  trust  exclusively  to  the  enlightenment  of  our 
corps,  but  this  seems  an  affair  of  sentiment,  Monsieur.  Sen- 
timent is  not  in  our  way.  Seek  the  trace  of  that  in  the  haunts 
of  pleasure." 

* 

M.  Renard,  having  thus  poetically  delivered  himself  of  that 
philosophical  dogma,  rose  to  depart. 

Graham  slipped  into  his  hand  a  bank-note  of  sufficient  value 
to  justify  the  profound  bow  he  received  in  return. 

When  M.  Kenard  had  gone,  Graham  heaved  another  impa- 
tient sigh,  and  said  to  himself,  "Xo,  it  is  not  possible,  —  at 
least  not  yet." 

Then,  compressing  his  lips  as  a  man  who  forces  himself  to 
something  he  dislikes,  he  dipped  his  pen  into  the  inkstand, 
and  wrote  rapidly  thus  to  his  kinsman;  — 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  —  I  lose  not  a  post  in  replying  to  your  kind  and 
considerate  letter.  It  is  not  in  my  power  at  present  to  return  to  Eng- 
land. I  need  not  say  how  fondly  I  cherish  the  hope  of  representing  the 
dear  old  county  some  day.  If  Vavasour  could  be  induced  to  defer  his 
resignation  of  the  seat  for  another  session,  or  at  least  for  six  or  seven 
months,  why  then  I  might  be  free  to  avail  myself  of  the  opening ;  at 
present  I  am  not.  Meanwhile  I  am  sorely  tempted  to  buy  back  the  old 
Lodge ;  probably  the  brewer  would  allow  me  to  leave  on  mortgage  the 
sum  I  myself  have  on  the  property,  and  a  few  additional  thousands.  I 
have  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  transfer  at  present  much  of  the  money 
now  invested  in  the  Funds.  I  will  consider  this  point,  which  probably 
does  not  press. 

I  reserve  all  Paris  news  till  my  next ;  and  begging  you  to  forgive  so 
curt  and  unsatisfactory  a  reply  to  a  letter  so  important  that  it  excites 
me  more  than  1  like  to  own,  believe  me  your  affectionate  friend  and 

cousin, 

GRAHAM. 


80  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER   II. 

AT  about  the  same  hour  on  the  same  day  in  which  the  Eng- 
lishman held  the  conference  with  the  Parisian  detective  just 
related,  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant  found  himself  by  ap- 
pointment in  the  cabinet  d'affaires  of  his  avou&  M.  Gandrin: 
that  gentleman  had  hitherto  not  found  time  to  give  him  a 
definite  opinion  as  to  the  case  submitted  to  his  judgment. 
The  avou&  received  Alain  with  a  kind  of  forced  civility,  in 
which  the  natural  intelligence  of  the  Marquis,  despite  his 
inexperience  of  life,  discovered  embarrassment. 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  Gandrin,  fidgeting  among  the 
papers  on  his  bureau,  "this  is  a  very  complicated  business. 
I  have  given  not  only  my  best  attention  to  it,  but  to  your 
general  interests.  To  be  plain,  your  estate,  though  a  fine  one, 
is  fearfully  encumbered  —  fearfully  —  frightfully." 

"Sir,"  said  the  Marquis,  haughtily,  "that  is  a  fact  which 
was  never  disguised  from  you." 

"  I  do  not  say  that  it  was,  Marquis ;  but  I  scarcely  realized 
the  amount  of  the  liabilities  nor  the  nature  of  the  property. 
It  will  be  difficult  —  nay,  I  fear,  impossible  —  to  find  any 
capitalist  to  advance  a  sum  that  will  cover  the  mortgages  at 
an  interest  less  than  you  now  pay.  As  for  a  Company  to 
take  the  whole  trouble  off  your  hands,  clear  off  the  mortgages, 
manage  the  forests,  develop  the  fisheries,  guarantee  you  an 
adequate  income,  and  at  the  end  of  twenty-one  years  or  so 
render  up  to  you  or  your  heirs  the  free  enjoyment  of  an  estate 
thus  improved,  we  must  dismiss  that  prospect  as  a  wild  dream 
of  my  good  friend  M.  Hebert.  People  in  the  provinces  do 
dream;  in  Paris  everybody  is  wide  awake." 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  Marquis,  with  that  inborn  imperturb- 
able loftiness  of  sany  froid  which  has  always  in  adverse  cir- 
cumstances characterized  the  French  nohlesse,  "  be  kind  enough 
to  restore  my  papers.  I  see  that  you  are  not  the  man  for  me. 


THE  PARISIANS.  81 

Allow  me  only  to  thank  you,  and  inquire  the  amount  of  my 
debt  for  the  trouble  I  have  given." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  quite  justified  in  thinking  I  am  not  the 
man  for  you,  Monsieur  le  Marquis ;  and  your  papers  shall,  if 
you  decide  on  dismissing  me,  be  returned  to  you  this  evening. 
But  as  to  my  accepting  remuneration  where  I  have  rendered 
no  service,  I  request  M.  le  Marquis  to  put  that  out  of  the 
question.  Considering  myself,  then,  no  longer  your  avoue, 
do  not  think  I  take  too  great  a  liberty  in  volunteering  my 
counsel  as  a  friend,  —  or  a  friend  at  least  to  M.  Hebert,  if  you 
do  not  vouchsafe  my  right  so  to  address  yourself." 

M.  Gandrin  spoke  with  a  certain  dignity  of  voice  and  man- 
ner which  touched  and  softened  his  listener. 

"  You  make  me  your  debtor  far  more  than  I  pretend  to  re- 
pay," replied  Alain.  "Heaven  knows  I  want  a  friend,  and  I 
will  heed  with  gratitude  and  respect  all  your  counsels  in  that 
character." 

"Plainly  and  briefly,  my  advice  is  this:  M.  Louvier  is 
the  principal  mortgagee.  He  is  among  the  six  richest  cap- 
italists of  Paris.  He  does  not,  therefore,  want  money,  but, 
like  most  self-made  men,  he  is  very  accessible  to  social  vani- 
ties. He  would  be  proud  to  think  he  had  rendered  a  service 
to  a  Rochebriant.  Approach  him,  either  through  me,  or,  far 
better,  at  once  introduce  yourself,  and  propose  to  consolidate 
all  your  other  liabilities  in  one  mortgage  to  him,  at  a  rate 
of  interest  lower  than  that  which  is  now  paid  to  some  of  the 
small  mortgagees.  This  would  add  considerably  to  your 
income  and  would  carry  out  M.  Hebert's  advice." 

"  But  does  it  not  strike  you,  dear  M.  Gandrin,  that  such  go- 
ing cap-in-hand  to  one  who  has  power  over  my  fate,  while  I 
have  none  over  his,  would  scarcely  be  consistent  with  my 
self-respect,  not  as  Rochebriant  only,  but  as  Frenchman?  " 

"It  does  not  strike  me  so  in  the  least;  at  all  events,  I  could 
make  the  proposal  on  your  behalf,  without  compromising 
yourself,  though  I  should  be  far  more  sanguine  of  success  if 
you  addressed  M.  Louvier  in  person." 

"  I  should  nevertheless  prefer  leaving  it  in  your  hands ;  but 
even  for  that  I  must  take  a  few  days  to  consider.  Of  all  the 

VOL     I    —  6 


82  THE  PARISIANS. 

mortgagees  M.  Louvier  has  been  hitherto  the  severest  and 
most  menacing,  the  one  whom  Hebert  dreads  the  most;  and 
should  he  become  sole  mortgagee,  my  whole  estate  would  pass 
to  him  if,  through  any  succession  of  bad  seasons  and  failing 
tenants,  the  interest  was  not  punctually  paid." 

"It  could  so  pass  to  him  now." 

"  No ;  for  there  have  been  years  in  which  the  other  mort- 
gagees, who  are  Bretons  and  would  be  loath  to  ruin  a  Roche- 
briant,  have  been  lenient  and  patient." 

"  If  Louvier  has  not  been  equally  so,  it  is  only  because  he 
knew  nothing  of  you,  and  your  father  no  doubt  had  often 
sorely  tasked  his  endurance.  Come,  suppose  we  manage  to 
break  the  ice  easily.  Do  me  the  honour  to  dine  here  to  meet 
him;  you  will  find  that  he  is  not  an  unpleasant  man." 

The  Marquis  hesitated,  but  the  thought  of  the  sharp  and 
seemingly  hopeless  struggle  for  the  retention  of  his  ancestral 
home  to  which  he  would  be  doomed  if  he  returned  from  Paris 
unsuccessful  in  his  errand  overmastered  his  pride.  He  felt 
as  if  that  self -conquest  was  a  duty  he  owed  to  the  very  tombs 
of  his  fathers.  "I  ought  not  to  shrink  from  the  face  of  a 
creditor,"  said  he,  smiling  somewhat  sadly,  "and  I  accept  the 
proposal  you  so  graciously  make." 

"  You  do  well,  Marquis,  and  I  will  write  at  once  to  Louvier 
to  ask  him  to  give  me  his  first  disengaged  day." 

The  Marquis  had  no  sooner  quitted  the  house  than  M. 
Gandrin  opened  a  door  at  the  side  of  his  office,  and  a  large 
portly  man  strode  into  the  room, —  stride  it  was  rather  than 
step, —  firm,  self-assured,  arrogant,  masterful. 

"Well,  mon  ami,"  said  this  man,  taking  his  stand  at  the 
hearth,  as  a  king  might  take  his  stand  in  the  hall  of  his  vas- 
sal, "and  what  says  our  petit  muscadin?  " 

"He  is  neither  petit  nor  muscadin,  Monsieur  Louvier," 
replied  Gandrin,  peevishly;  "and  he  will  task  your  powers 
to  get  him  thoroughly  into  your  net.  But  I  have  persuaded 
him  to  meet  you  here.  What  day  can  you  dine  with  me?  I 
had  better  ask  no  one  else." 

"To-morrow  I  dine  with  my  friend  0 ,  to  meet  the 

chiefs  of  the  Opposition,"  said  M.  Louvier,  with  a  sort  of 


THE  PARISIANS.  83 

careless  rollicking  pomposity.  "Thursday  with  Pereire; 
Saturday  I  entertain  at  home.  Say  Friday.  Your  hour?  " 

"Seven." 

"Good!  Show  me  those  Rochebriant  papers  again;  there 
is  something  I  had  forgotten  to  note.  Never  mind  me.  Go 
on  with  your  work  as  if  I  were  not  here." 

Louvier  took  up  the  papers,  seated  himself  in  an  armchair 
by  the  fireplace,  stretched  out  his  legs,  and  read  at  his  ease, 
but  with  a  very  rapid  eye,  as  a  practised  lawyer  skims 
through  the  technical  forms  of  a  case  to  fasten  upon  the 
marrow  of  it. 

"Ah!  as  I  thought.  The  farms  could  not  pay  even  the 
interest  on  my  present  mortgage;  the  forests  come  in  for 
that.  If  a  contractor  for  the  yearly  sale  of  the  woods  was 
bankrupt  and  did  not  pay,  how  could  I  get  my  interest? 
Answer  me  that,  Gandrin." 

"Certainly  you  must  run  the  risk  of  that  chance." 

"Of  course  the  chance  occurs,  and  then  I  foreclose,1  —  I 
seize, —  Rochebriant  and  its  seiyneuries  are  mine." 

As  he  spoke  he  laughed,  not  sardonically, —  a  jovial  laugh, 
—  and  opened  wide,  to  reshut  as  in  a  vice,  the  strong  iron 
hand  which  had  doubtless  closed  over  many  a  man's  all. 

"Thanks.  On  Friday,  seven  o'clock."  He  tossed  the 
papers  back  on  the  bureau,  nodded  a  royal  nod,  and  strode 
forth  imperiously  as  he  had  strode  in. 


CHAPTER   III. 

4 

MEANWHILE  the  young  Marquis  pursued  his  way  thought- 
fully through  the  streets,  and  entered  the  Champs  Elysees. 
Since  we  first,  nay,  since  we  last  saw  him,  he  is  strikingly 

1  For  the  sake  of  the  general  reader,  English  technical  words  are  here,  as 
elsewhere,  substituted  as  much  as  possible  for  French. 


84  THE   PARISIANS. 

improved  in  outward  appearances.  He  has  unconsciously 
acquired  more  of  the  easy  grace  of  the  Parisian  in  gait  and 
bearing.  You  would  no  longer  detect  the  Provincial  —  per- 
haps, however,  because  he  is  now  dressed,  though  very  sim- 
ply, in  habiliments  that  belong  to  the  style  of  the  day. 
Rarely  among  the  loungers  in  the  Champs  Elysees  could  be 
seen  a  finer  form,  a  cornelier  face,  an  air  of  more  unmistak- 
able distinction. 

The  eyes  of  many  a  passing  fair  one  gazed  on  him,  admir- 
ingly or  coquettishly.  But  he  was  still  so  little  the  true 
Parisian  that  they  got  no  smile,  no  look  in  return.  He  was 
wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts;  was  he  thinking  of  M.  Louvier? 

He  had  nearly  gained  the  entrance  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
when  he  was  accosted  by  a  voice  behind,  and  turning  round 
saw  his  friend  Lemercier  arm-in-arm  with  Graham  Vane. 

"  Bonjour,  Alain,"  said  Lemercier,  hooking  his  disengaged 
arm  into  Rochebriant's.  "  I  suspect  we  are  going  the  same 
way." 

Alain  felt  himself  change  countenance  at  this  conjecture, 
and  replied  coldly,  "I  think  not;  I  have  got  to  the  end  of  my 
walk,  and  shall  turn  back  to  Paris ;  "  addressing  himself  to 
the  Englishman,  he  said  with  formal  politeness,  "I  regret 
not  to  have  found  you  at  home  when  I  called  some  weeks  ago, 
and  no  less  so  to  have  been  out  when  you  had  the  complais- 
ance to  return  my  visit." 

"At  all  events,"  replied  the  Englishman,  "let  me  not  lose 
the  opportunity  of  improving  our  acquaintance  which  now 
offers.  It  is  true  that  our  friend  Lemercier,  catching  sight 
of  me  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  stopped  his  coupe  and  carried  me 
off  for  a  promenade  in  the  Bois.  The  fineness  of  the  day 
tempted  us  to  get  out  of  his  carriage  as  the  Bois  came  in  sight. 
But  if  you  are  going  back  to  Paris  I  relinquish  the  Bois  and 
offer  myself  as  your  companion." 

Frederic  (the  name  is  so  familiarly  English  that  the 
reader  might  think  me  pedantic  did  I  accentuate  it  as  French) 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  two  friends,  half  amused 
and  half  angry. 

"  And  am  I  to  be  left  alone  to  achieve  a  conquest,  in  which, 


THE  PARISIANS.  85 

if  I  succeed,  I  shall  change  into  hate  and  envy  the  affection 
of  my  two  best  friends?     Be  it  so. 

"  '  Un  veritable  amant  ne  connait  point  d'amis.'  " 

"I  do  not  comprehend  your  meaning,"  said  the  Marquis, 
with  a  compressed  lip  and  a  slight  frown. 

"Bah!"  cried  Frederic;  "come,  franc  jeu ;  cards  on  the 
table.  M.  Gram  Yarn  was  going  into  the  Bois  at  my  sugges- 
tion on  the  chance  of  having  another  look  at  the  pearl- 
coloured  angel;  and  you,  Kochebriant,  can't  deny  that  you 
were  going  into  the  Bois  for  the  same  object." 

"One  may  pardon  an  enfant  terrible,"  said  the  Englishman, 
laughing,  "  but  an  ami  terrible  should  be  sent  to  the  galleys. 
Come,  Marquis,  let  us  walk  back  and  submit  to  our  fate. 
Even  were  the  lady  once  more  visible,  we  have  no  chance  of 
being  observed  by  the  side  of  a  Lovelace  so  accomplished  and 
so  audacious !  " 

"Adieu,  then,  recreants:  I  go  alone.     Victory  or  death." 

The  Parisian  beckoned  his  coachman,  entered  his  carriage, 
and  with  a  mocking  grimace  kissed  his  hand  to  the  compan- 
ions thus  deserting  or  deserted. 

Rochebriant  touched  the  Englishman's  arm,  and  said, 
"  Do  you  think  that  Lemercier  could  be  impertinent  enough 
to  accost  that  lady?  " 

"In  the  first  place,"  returned  the  Englishman,  "Lemercier 
himself  tells  me  that  the  lady  has  for  several  weeks  relin- 
quished her  walks  in  the  Bois,  and  the  probability  is,  there- 
fore, that  he  will  not  have  the  opportunity  to  accost  her.  In 
the  next  place,  it  appears  that  when  she  did  take  her  solitary 
walk,  she  did  not  stray  far  from  her  carriage,  and  was  in 
reach  of  the  protection  of  her  laquais  and  coachman.  But  to 
speak  honestly,  do  you,  who  know  Lemercier  better  than  I, 
take  him  to  be  a  man  who  would  commit  an  impertinence  to  a 
woman  unless  there  were  viveurs  of  his  own  sex  to  see  him 
do  it?" 

Alain  smiled.  "ISTo.  Frederic's  real  nature  is  an  admir- 
able one,  and  if  he  ever  do  anything  that  he  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of,  't  will  be  from  the  pride  of  showing  how  finely 


86  THE  PARISIANS. 

he  can  do  it.  Such  was  his  character  at  college,  and  such  it 
still  seems  at  Paris.  But  it  is  true  that  the  lady  has  forsaken 
her  former  walk;  at  least  I  —  I  have  not  seen  her  since  the 
day  I  first  beheld  her  in  company  with  Frederic.  Yet  —  yet, 
pardon  me,  you  were  going  to  the  Bois  on  the  chance  of  see- 
ing her.  Perhaps  she  has  changed  the  direction  of  her  walk, 
and  —  and  —  " 

The  Marquis  stopped  short,  stammering  and  confused. 

The  Englishman  scanned  his  countenance  with  the  rapid 
glance  of  a  practised  observer  of  men  and  things,  and  after 
a  short  pause  said :  "  If  the  lady  has  selected  some  other  spot 
for  her  promenade,  I  am  ignorant  of  it;  nor  have  I  ever  vol- 
unteered the  chance  of  meeting  with  her,  since  I  learned  — 
first  from  Lemercier,  and  afterwards  from  others  —  that  her 
destination  is  the  stage.  Let  us  talk  frankly,  Marquis.  I 
am  accustomed  to  take  much  exercise  on  foot,  and  the  Bois  is 
my  favourite  resort:  one  day  I  there  found  myself  in  the 
allee  which  the  lady  we  speak  of  used  to  select  for  her  prom- 
enade, and  there  saw  her.  Something  in  her  face  impressed 
me;  how  shall  I  describe  the  impression?  Did  you  ever  open 
a  poem,  a  romance,  in  some  style  wholly  new  to  you,  and  be- 
fore you  were  quite  certain  whether  or  not  its  merits  justified 
the  interest  which  the  novelty  inspired,  you  were  summoned 
away,  or  the  book  was  taken  out  of  your  hands?  If  so,  did 
you  not  feel  an  intellectual  longing  to  have  another  glimpse 
of  the  book?  That  illustration  describes  my  impression,  and 
I  own  that  I  twice  again  went  to  the  same  allee.  The  last 
time  I  only  caught  sight  of  the  young  lady  as  she  was  getting 
into  her  carriage.  As  she  was  then  borne  away,  I  perceived 
one  of  the  custodians  of  the  Bois ;  and  learned,  on  questioning 
him,  that  the  lady  was  in  the  habit  of  walking  always  alone 
in  the  same  allee  at  the  same  hour  on  most  fine  days,  but  that 
he  did  not  know  her  name  or  address.  A  motive  of  curiosity 
—  perhaps  an  idle  one  —  then  made  me  ask  Lemercier,  who 
boasts  of  knowing  his  Paris  so  intimately,  if  he  could  inform 
me  who  the  lady  was.  He  undertook  to  ascertain." 

"But,"  interposed  the  Marquis,  "he  did  not  ascertain  who 
she  was;  he  only  ascertained  where  she  lived,  and  that  she 


THE  PARISIANS.  87 

and  an  elder  companion  were  Italians, —  whom  he  suspected, 
without  sufficient  ground,  to  be  professional  singers." 

"True;  but  since  then  I  ascertained  more  detailed  particu- 
lars from  two  acquaintances  of  mine  who  happen  to  know 
her, —  M.  Savarin,  the  distinguished  writer,  and  Mrs.  Morley, 
an  accomplished  and  beautiful  American  lady,  who  is  more 
than  an  acquaintance.  I  may  boast  the  honour  of  ranking 

among  her  friends.  As  Savarin's  villa  is  at  A ,  I  asked 

him  incidentally  if  he  knew  the  fair  neighbour  whose  face 
had  so  attracted  me;  and  Mrs.  Morley  being  present,  and 
overhearing  me,  I  learned  from  both  what  1  now  repeat  to 
you. 

"The  young  lady  is  a  Signorina  Cicogna, —  at  Paris,  ex- 
changing (except  among  particular  friends),  as  is  not  un- 
usual, the  outlandish  designation  of  Signorina  for  the  more 
conventional  one  of  Mademoiselle.  Her  father  was  a  member 
of  the  noble  Milanese  family  of  the  same  name,  therefore  the 
young  lady  is  well  born.  Her  father  has  been  long  dead; 
his  widow  married  again  an  English  gentleman  settled 
in  Italy,  a  scholar  and  antiquarian;  his  name  was  Selby. 
This  gentleman,  also  dead,  bequeathed  the  Signorina  a 
small  but  sufficient  competence.  She  is  now  an  orphan,  and 
residing  with  a  companion,  a  Signora  Venosta,  who  was  once 
a  singer  of  some  repute  at  the  Neapolitan  Theatre,  in  the 
orchestra  of  which  her  husband  was  principal  performer;  but 
she  relinquished  the  stage  several  years  ago  on  becoming  a 
widow,  and  gave  lessons  as  a  teacher.  She  has  the  character 
of  being  a  scientific  musician,  and  of  unblemished  private  re- 
spectability. Subsequently  she  was  induced  to  give  up  gen- 
eral teaching,  and  undertake  the  musical  education  and  the 
social  charge  of  the  young  lady  with  her.  This  girl  is  said 
to  have  early  given  promise  of  extraordinary  excellence  as  a 
singer,  and  excited  great  interest  among  a  coterie  of  literary 
critics  and  musical  cognoscenti.  She  was  to  have  come  out  at 
the  Theatre  of  Milan  a  year  or  two  ago,  but  her  career  has 
been  suspended  in  consequence  of  ill-health,  for  which  she  is 
now  at  Paris  under  the  care  of  an  English  physician,  who  has 
made  remarkable  cures  in  all  complaints  of  the  respiratory 


88  THE  PARISIANS. 

organs.  M ,  the  great  composer,  who  knows  her,  says 

that  in  expression  and  feeling  she. has  no  living  superior, 
perhaps  no  equal  since  Malibran." 

"You  seem,  dear  Monsieur,  to  have  taken  much  pains  to 
acquire  this  information." 

"No  great  pains  were  necessary;  but  had  they  been  I  might 
have  taken  them,  for,  as  I  have  owned  to  you,  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna,  while  she  was  yet  a  mystery  to  me,  strangely  inter- 
ested my  thoughts  or  my  fancies.  That  interest  has  now 
ceased.  The  world  of  actresses  and  singers  lies  apart  from 
mine." 

"Yet,"  said  Alain,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  implied  doubt, 
"  if  I  understand  Lemercier  aright,  you  were  going  with  him 
to  the  Bois  on  the  chance  of  seeing  again  the  lady  in  whom 
your  interest  has  ceased." 

"  Lemercier's  account  was  not  strictly  accurate.  He  stopped 
his  carriage  to  speak  to  me  on  quite  another  subject,  on  which 
I  have  consulted  him,  and  then  proposed  to  take  me  on  to  the 
Bois.  I  assented;  and  it  was  not  till  we  were  in  the  carriage 
that  he  suggested  the  idea  of  seeing  whether  the  pearly-robed 
lady  had  resumed  her  walk  in  the  allee.  You  may  judge  how 
indifferent  I  was  to  that  chance  when  I  preferred  turning 
back  with  you  to  going  on  with  him.  Between  you  and  me, 
Marquis,  to  men  of  our  age,  who  have  the  business  of  life 
before  them,  and  feel  that  if  there  be  aught  in  which  nollesse 
obi  lye  it  is  a  severe  devotion  to  noble  objects,  there  is  nothing 
more  fatal  to  such  devotion  than  allowing  the  heart  to  be 
blown  hither  and  thither  at  every  breeze  of  mere  fancy,  and 
dreaming  ourselves  into  love  with  some  fair  creature  whom 
we  never  could  marry  consistently  with  the  career  we  have 
set  before  our  ambition.  I  could  not  marry  an  actress,  — 
neither,  I  presume,  could  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant;  and 
the  thought  of  a  courtship  which  excluded  the  idea  of  mar- 
riage to  a  young  orphan  of  name  unblemished,  of  virtue 
unsuspected,  would  certainly  not  be  compatible  with  '  de- 
votion to  noble  objects.'  " 

Alain  involuntarily  bowed  his  head  in  assent  to  the  propo- 
sition, and,  it  may  be,  in  submission  to  an  implied  rebuke. 


THE  PARISIANS.  89 

The  two  men  walked  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  and  Graham 
first  spoke,  changing  altogether  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"  Lemercier  tells  me  you  decline  going  much  into  this  world 
of  Paris,  the  capital  of  capitals,  which  appears  so  irresistibly 
attractive  to  us  foreigners." 

"Possibly;  but,  to  borrow  your  words,  I  have  the  business 
of  life  before  me." 

"Business  is  a  good  safeguard  against  the  temptations  to 
excess  in  pleasure,  in  which  Paris  abounds.  But  there  is  no 
business  which  does  not  admit  of  some  holiday,  and  all  busi- 
ness necessitates  commerce  with  mankind.  A  propos,  I  was 
the  other  evening  at  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon's,  —  a  brilliant 
assembly,  filled  with  ministers,  senators,  and  courtiers.  I 
heard  your  name  mentioned." 

"Mine?" 

"Yes;  Duplessis,  the  rising  financier  —  who  rather  to  my 
surprise  was  not  only  present  among  these  official  and  deco- 
rated celebrities,  but  apparently  quite  at  home  among  them 
—  asked %the  Duchess  if  she  had  not  seen  you  since  your  ar- 
rival at  Paris.  She  replied,  '  No;  that  though  you  were 
among  her  nearest  connections,  you  had  not  called  on  her;  ' 
and  bade  Duplessis  tell  you  that  you  were  a  monstre  for  not 
doing  so.  Whether  or  not  Duplessis  will  take  that  liberty  I 
know  not;  but  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  do.  She  is  a  very 
charming  woman,  full  of  talent;  and  that  stream  of  the  world 
which  reflects  the  stars,  with  all  their  mythical  influences  on 
fortune,  flows  through  her  salons." 

"I  am  not  born  under  those  stars.     I  am  a  Legitimist." 

"  I  did  not  forget  your  political  creed ;  but  in  England  the 
leaders  of  opposition  attend  the  salons  of  the  Prime  Minister. 
A  man  is  not  supposed  to  compromise  his  opinions  because  he 
exchanges  social  courtesies  with  those  to  whom  his  opinions 
are  hostile.  Pray  excuse  me  if  I  am  indiscreet,  I  speak  as 
a  traveller  who  asks  for  information ;  but  do  the  Legitimists 
really  believe  that  they  best  serve  their  cause  by  declining  any 
mode  of  competing  with  its  opponents?  Would  there  not  be 
a  fairer  chance  of  the  ultimate  victory  of  their  principles  if 
they  made  their  talents  and  energies  individually  prominent; 


90  THE  PARISIANS. 

if  they  were  known  as  skilful  generals,  practical  statesmen, 
eminent  diplomatists,  brilliant  writers.  Could  they  com- 
bine,—  not  to  sulk  and  exclude  themselves  from  the  great 
battle-field  of  the  world,  but  in  their  several  ways  to  render 
themselves  of  such  use  to  their  country  that  some  day  or 
other,  in  one  of  those  revolutionary  crises  to  which  France, 
alas!  must  long  be  subjected, —  they  would  find  themselves 
'.able  to  turn  the  scale  of  undecided  councils  and  conflicting 
jealousies." 

"  Monsieur,  we  hope  for  the  day  when  the  Divine  Disposer 
of  events  will  strike  into  the  hearts  of  our  fickle  and  erring 
countrymen  the  conviction  that  there  will  be  no  settled  repose 
for  France  save  under  the  sceptre  of  her  rightful  kings.  But 
meanwhile  we  are, —  I  see  it  more  clearly  since  I  have  quitted 
Bretagne, —  we  are  a  hopeless  minority." 

"  Does  not  history  tell  us  that  the  great  changes  of  the  world 
have  been  wrought  by  minorities,  —  but  on  the  one  condition 
that  the  minorities  shall  not  be  hopeless?  It  is  almost  the 
other  day  that  the  Bonapartists  were  in  a  minority  that  their 
adversaries  called  hopeless,  and  the  majority  for  the  Emperor 
is  now  so  preponderant  that  I  tremble  for  his  safety.  When 
a  majority  becomes  so  vast  that  intellect  disappears  in  the 
crowd,  the  date  of  its  destruction  commences ;  for  by  the  law 
of  reaction  the  minority  is  installed  against  it.  It  is  the 
nature  of  things  that  minorities  are  always  more  intellectual 
than  multitudes,  and  intellect  is  ever  at  work  in  sapping 
numerical  force.  What  your  party  want  is  hope;  because 
without  hope  there  is  no  energy.  I  remember  hearing  iny 
father  say  that  when  he  met  the  Count  de  Chambord  at  Ems, 
that  illustrious  personage  delivered  himself  of  &  belle  phrase 
much  admired  by  his  partisans.  The  Emperor  was  then 
President  of  the  Republic,  in  a  very  doubtful  and  dangerous 
position.  France  seemed  on  the  verge  of  another  convulsion. 
A  certain  distinguished  politician  recommended  the  Count  de 
Chambord  to  hold  himself  ready  to  enter  at  once  as  a  candi- 
date for  the  throne.  And  the  Count,  with  a  benignant  smile 
on  his  handsome  face,  answered,  '  All  wrecks  come  to  the 
shore:  the  shore  does  not  cro  to  the  wrecks.'" 


THE  PARISIANS.  91 

"  Beautifully  said !  "  exclaimed  the  Marquis. 

"Not  if  '  Le  beau  est  toujours  le  vrai.'  My  father,  no  inex- 
perienced nor  unwise  politician,  in  repeating  the  royal  words, 
remarked:  '  The  fallacy  of  the  Count's  argument  is  in  its 
metaphor.  A  man  is  not  a  shore.  Do  you  not  think  that  the 
seamen  on  board  the  wrecks  would  be  more  grateful  to  him 
who  did  not  complacently  compare  himself  to  a  shore,  but 
considered  himself  a  human  being  like  themselves,  and  risked 
his  own  life  in  a  boat,  even  though  it  were  a  cockle-shell,  in 
the  chance  of  saving  theirs?  " 

Alain  de  Rochebriant  was  a  brave  man,  with  that  intense 
sentiment  of  patriotism  which  characterizes  Frenchmen  of 
every  rank  and  persuasion,  unless  they  belong  to  the  Inter- 
nationalists;  and,  without  pausing  to  consider,  he  cried, 
"Your  father  was  right." 

The  Englishman  resumed:  "Need  I  say,  my  dear  Marquis, 
that  I  am  not  a  Legitimist?  I  am  not  an  Imperialist,  neither 
am  I  an  Orleanist  nor  a  Eepublican.  Between  all  those  polit- 
ical divisions  it  is  for  Frenchmen  to  make  their  choice,  and 
for  Englishmen  to  accept  for  France  that  government  which 
France  has  established.  I  view  things  here  as  a  simple  ob- 
server. But  it  strikes  me  that  if  I  were  a  Frenchman  in  your 
position,  I  should  think  myself  unworthy  my  ancestors  if  I 
consented  to  be  an  insignificant  looker-on." 

"You  are  not  in  my  position,"  said  the  Marquis,  half 
mournfully,  half  haughtily,  "and  you  can  scarcely  judge  of  it 
even  in  imagination." 

"  I  need  not  much  task  my  imagination ;  I  judge  of  it  by 
analogy.  I  was  very  much  in  your  position  when  I  entered 
upon  what  I  venture  to  call  my  career;  and  it  is  the  curi- 
ous similarity  between  us  in  circumstances,  that  made  me 
wish  for  your  friendship  when  that  similarity  was  made 
known  to  me  by  Lemercier,  who  is  not  less  garrulous  than 
the  true  Parisian  usually  is.  Permit  me  to  say  that,  like 
you,  I  was  reared  in  some  pride  of  no  inglorious  ancestry.  I 
was  reared  also  in  the  expectation  of  great  wealth.  Those 
expectations  were  not  realized :  my  father  had  the  fault  of 
noble  natures, —  generosity  pushed  to  imprudence:  he  died 


92  THE   PARISIANS. 

poor  and  in  debt.     You  retain  the  home  of  your  ancestors;  I 
had  to  resign  mine." 

The  Marquis  had  felt  deeply  interested  in  this  narrative, 
and  as  Graham  now  paused,  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"One  of  our  most  eminent  personages  said  to  me  about 
that  time,  (  Whatever  a  clever  man  of  your  age  determines  to 
do  or  to  be,  the  odds  are  twenty  to  one  that  he  has  only  to 
live  on  in  order  to  do  or  to  be  it.7  Don't  you  think  he  spoke 
truly?  I  think  so." 

"I  scarcely  know  what  to  think,"  said  Rochebriant;  "I 
feel  as  if  you  had  given  me  so  rough  a  shake  when  I  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  dull  dream,  that  I  am  not  yet  quite  sure 
whether  I  am  asleep  or  awake." 

Just  as  he  said  this,  and  towards  the  Paris  end  of 
the  Champs  Elysees,  there  was  a  halt,  a  sensation  among 
the  loungers  round  them;  many  of  them  uncovered  in 
salute. 

A  man  on  the  younger  side  of  middle  age,  somewhat  in- 
clined to  corpulence,  with  a  very  striking  countenance,  was 
riding  slowly  by.  He  returned  the  salutations  he  received 
with  the  careless  dignity  of  a  Personage  accustomed  to  re- 
spect, and  then  reined  in  his  horse  by  the  side  of  a  barouche, 
and  exchanged  some  words  with  a  portly  gentleman  who  was 
its  sole  occupant.  The  loungers,  still  halting,  seemed  to  con- 
template this  parley  —  between  him  on  horseback  and  him  in 
the  carriage  —  with  very  eager  interest.  Some  put  their 
hands  behind  their  ears  and  pressed  forward,  as  if  trying  to 
overhear  what  was  said. 

"I  wonder,"  quoth  Graham,  "whether,  with  all  his  clever- 
ness, the  Prince  has  in  any  way  decided  what  he  means  to  do 
or  to  be." 

"The  Prince!  "  said  Rochebriant,  rousing  himself  from  rev- 
ery;  "what  Prince?  " 

"Do  you  not  recognize  him  by  his  wonderful  likeness  to 
the  first  Napoleon, —  him  on  horseback  talking  to  Louvier, 
the  great  financier." 

"  Is  that  stout  bourgeois  in  the  carriage  Louvier, —  my  mort- 
gagee, Louvier?" 


THE   PARISIANS.  93 

"Your  mortgagee,  my  dear  Marquis?  Well,  he  is  rich 
enough  to  be  a  very  lenient  one  upon  pay-day." 

"Heinf  —  I  doubt  his  leniency,"  said  Alain.  "I  have 
promised  my  avoue  to  meet  him  at  dinner.  Do  you  think 
I  did  wrong?  " 

"Wrong!  of  course  not;  he  is  likely  to  overwhelm  you 
with  civilities.  Pray  don't  refuse  if  he  gives  you  an  invita- 
tion to  his  soiree  next  Saturday;  I  am  going  to  it.  One  meets 
there  the  notabilities  most  interesting  to  study, —  artists, 
authors,  politicians,  especially  those  who  call  themselves  Ee- 
publicans.  He  and  the  Prince  agree  in  one  thing;  namely, 
the  cordial  reception  they  give  to  the  men  who  would  destroy 
the  state  of  things  upon  which  Prince  and  financier  both 
thrive.  Hillo!  here  comes  Lemercier  on  return  from  the 
Bois." 

Lemercier's  coupe  stopped  beside  the  footpath.  "What 
tidings  of  the  Belle  Inconnue  ?  "  asked  the  Englishman. 

"  None ;  she  was  not  there.  But  I  am  rewarded :  such  an 
adventure!  a  dame  of  the  haute  vol&e;  I  believe  she  is  a 
duchess.  She  was  walking  with  a  lap-dog,  a  pure  Pome- 
ranian. A  strange  poodle  flew  at  the  Pomeranian,  I  drove 
off  the  poodle,  rescued  the  Pomeranian,  received  the  most 
gracious  thanks,  the  sweetest  smile :  femme  superbe,  middle- 
aged.  I  prefer  women  of  forty.  Au  revoir,  I  am  due  at  the 
club." 

Alain  felt  a  sensation  of  relief  that  Lemercier  had  not  seen 
the  lady  in  the  pearl-coloured  dress,  and  quitted  the  English- 
man with  a  lightened  heart. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"Piccola,  piccola  !  com*  e  cortese  !  another  invitation  from 
M.  Louvier  for  next  Saturday,  —  conversazione"  This 
was  said  in  Italian  by  an  elderly  lady  bursting  noisily  into 
the  room, —  elderly,  yet  with  a  youthful  expression  of  face, 


94  THE  PARISIANS. 

owing  perhaps  to  a  pair  of  very  vivacious  black  eyes.  She 
was  dressed,  after  a  somewhat  slatternly  fashion,  in  a  wrap- 
per of  crimson  merino  much  the  worse  for  wear,  a  blue  hand- 
kerchief twisted  turban-like  round  her  head,  and  her  feet 
encased  in  list  slippers.  The  person  to  whom  she  addressed 
herself  was  a  young  lady  with  dark  hair,  which,  despite  its 
evident  redundance,  was  restrained  into  smooth  glossy  braids 
over  the  forehead,  and  at  the  crown  of  the  small  graceful  head 
into  the  simple  knot  which  Horace  has  described  as  "  Spartan." 
Her  dress  contrasted  the  speaker's  by  an  exquisite  neatness. 

We  have  seen  her  before  as  the  lady  in  the  pearl-coloured 
robe;  but  seen  now  at  home  she  looks  much  younger.  She 
(was  one  of  those  whom,  encountered  in  the  streets  or  in  so- 
ciety, one  might  guess  to  be  married, —  probably  a  young  bride ; 
for  thus  seen  there  was  about  her  an  air  of  dignity  and  of  self- 
possession  which  suits  well  with  the  ideal  of  chaste  youth- 
ful matronage;  and  in  the  expression  of  the  face  there  was  a 
pensive  thoughtfulness  beyond  her  years.  But  as  she  now  sat 
by  the  open  window  arranging  flowers  in  a  glass  bowl,  a  book 
lying  open  on  her  lap,  you  would  never  have  said,  "  What  a 
handsome  woman !  "  you  would  have  said,  "  What  a  charming 
girl!  "  All  about  her  was  maidenly,  innocent,  and  fresh.  The 
dignity  of  her  bearing  was  lost  in  household  ease,  the  pensive- 
ness  of  her  expression  in  an  untroubled  serene  sweetness. 

Perhaps  many  of  my  readers  may  have  known  friends  en- 
gaged in  some  absorbing  cause  of  thought,  and  who  are  in 
the  habit  when  they  go  out,  especially  if  on  solitary  walks,  to 
take  that  cause  of  thought  with  them.  The  friend  may  be  an 
orator  meditating  his  speech,  a  poet  his  verses,  a  lawyer  a 
difficult  case,  a  physician  an  intricate  malady.  If  you  have 
such  a  friend,  and  you  observe  him  thus  away  from  his  home, 
his  face  will  seem  to  you  older  and  graver.  He  is  absorbed 
in  the  care  that  weighs  on  him.  When  you  see  him  in  a  holi- 
day moment  at  his  own  fireside,  the  care  is  thrown  aside; 
perhaps  he  mastered  while  abroad  the  difficulty  that  had 
troubled  him ;  he  is  cheerful,  pleasant,  sunny.  This  appears 
to  be  very  much  the  case  with  persons  of  genius.  When  in 
their  own  houses  we  usually  find  them  very  playful  and 


THE  PARISIANS.  95 

childlike.  Most  persons  of  real  genius,  whatever  they  may 
seem  out  of  doors,  are  very  sweet-tempered  at  home,  and 
sweet  temper  is  sympathizing  and  genial  in  the  intercourse 
of  private  life.  Certainly,  observing  this  girl  as  she  now 
bends  over  the  flowers,  it  would  be  difficult  to  believe  her  to 
be  the  Isaura  Cicogna  whose  letters  to  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil  exhibit  the  doubts  and  struggles  of  an  unquiet,  dis- 
contented, aspiring  mind.  Only  in  one  or  two  passages  in 
those  letters  would  you  have  guessed  at  the  writer  in  'the  girl 
as  we  now  see  her.  It  is  in  those  passages  where  she 
expresses  her  love  of  harmony,  and  her  repugnance  to  con- 
test: those  were  characteristics  you  might  have  read  in  her 
face. 

Certainly  the  girl  is  very  lovely :  what  long  dark  eyelashes ! 
what  soft,  tender,  dark -blue  eyes !  now  that  she  looks  up  and 
smiles,  what  a  bewitching  smile  it  is !  by  what  sudden  play 
of  rippling  dimples  the  smile  is  enlivened  and  redoubled!  Do 
you  notice  one  feature?  In  very  showy  beauties  it  is  seldom 
noticed;  but  I,  being  in  my  way  a  physiognomist,  consider 
that  it  is  always  worth  heeding  as  an  index  of  character.  It 
is  the  ear.  Remark  how  delicately  it  is  formed  in  her :  none 
of  that  heaviness  of  lobe  which  is  a  sure  sign  of  sluggish  in- 
tellect and  coarse  perception.  Hers  is  the  artist's  ear.  Note 
next  those  hands:  how  beautifully  shaped!  small,  but  not 
doll-like  hands, —  ready  and  nimble,  firm  and  nervous  hands, 
that  could  work  for  a  helpmate.  By  no  means  very  white, 
still  less  red,  but  somewhat  embrowned  as  by  the  sun,  such 
as  you  may  see  in  girls  reared  in  southern  climes,  and  in  her 
perhaps  betokening  an  impulsive  character  which  had  not 
accustomed  itself,  when  at  sport  in  the  open  air,  to  the  thral- 
dom of  gloves, —  very  impulsive  people  even  in  cold  climates 
seldom  do. 

In  conveying  to  us  by  a  few  bold  strokes  an  idea  of  the 
sensitive,  quick-moved,  warm-blooded  Henry  II.,  the  most 
impulsive  of  the  Plantagenets,  his  contemporary  chronicler 
tells  us  that  rather  than  imprison  those  active  hands  of  his, 
even  in  hawking-gloves,  he  would  suffer  his  falcon  to  fix  its 
sharp  claws  into  his  wrist.  No  doubt  there  is  a  difference  as 


96  THE  PARISIANS. 

to  what  is  befitting  between  a  burly  bellicose  creature  like 
Henry  II.  and  a  delicate  young  lady  like  Isaura  Cicogna; 
and  one  would  not  wish  to  see  those  dainty  wrists  of  hers 
seamed  and  scarred  by  a  falcon's  claws.  But  a  girl  may  not 
be  less  exquisitely  feminine  for  slight  heed  of  artificial  pretti- 
ness.  Isaura  had  no  need  of  pale  bloodless  hands  to  seem  one 
of  Nature's  highest  grade  of  gentlewomen  even  to  the  most 
fastidious  eyes.  About  her  there  was  a  charm  apart  from  her 
mere  beauty,  and  often  disturbed  instead  of  heightened  by  her 
mere  intellect:  it  consisted  in  a  combination  of  exquisite 
artistic  refinement,  and  of  a  generosity  of  character  by  which 
refinement  was  animated  into  vigour  and  warmth. 

The  room,  which  was  devoted  exclusively  to  Isaura,  had  in 
it  much  that  spoke  of  the  occupant.  That  room,  when  first 
taken  furnished,  had  a  good  deal  of  the  comfortless  showiness 
which  belongs  to  ordinary  furnished  apartments  in  France, 
especially  in  the  Parisian  suburbs,  chiefly  let  for  the  summer : 
thin  limp  muslin  curtains  that  decline  to  draw;  stiff  mahog- 
any chairs  covered  with  yellow  Utrecht  velvet;  a  tall  secr&- 
taire  in  a  dark  corner;  an  oval  buhl -table  set  in  tawdry  ormolu, 
islanded  in  the  centre  of  a  poor  but  gaudy  Scotch  carpet;  and 
but  one  other  table  of  dull  walnut-wood,  standing  clothless 
before  a  sofa  to  match  the  chairs;  the  eternal  ormolu  clock 
flanked  by  the  two  eternal  ormolu  candelabra  on  the  dreary 
mantelpiece.  Some  of  this  garniture  had  been  removed,  others 
softened  into  cheeriness  and  comfort.  The  room  somehow 
or  other  —  thanks  partly  to  a  very  moderate  expenditure  in 
pretty  twills  with  pretty  borders,  gracefully  simple  table- 
covers,  with  one  or  two  additional  small  tables  and  easy- 
chairs,  two  simple  vases  filled  with  flowers;  thanks  still  more 
to  a  nameless  skill  in  re-arrangement,  and  the  disposal  of  the 
slight  knick-knacks  and  well-bound  volumes,  which,  even  in 
travelling,  women  who  have  cultivated  the  pleasures  of  taste 
carry  about  them  —  had  been  coaxed  into  that  quiet  harmony, 
that  tone  of  consistent  subdued  colour,  which  corresponded 
with  the  characteristics  of  the  inmate.  Most  people  might 
have  been  puzzled  where  to  place  the  piano,  a  semi-grand,  so 
as  not  to  take  up  too  much  space  in  the  little  room;  but  where 


THE   PARISIANS.  97 

it  was  placed  it  seemed  so  at  home  that  you  might  have 
supposed  the  room  had  been  built  for  it. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  neatness,  —  one  is  too  evident,  and 
makes  everything  about  it  seem  trite  and  cold  and  stiff;  and 
another  kind  of  neatness  disappears  from  our  sight  in  a  satis- 
fied sense  of  completeness, —  like  some  exquisite,  simple,  fin- 
ished style  of  writing,  an  Addison's  or  a  St.  Pierre's. 

This  last  sort  of  neatness  belonged  to  Isaura,  and  brought 
to  mind  the  well-known  line  of  Catullus  when  on  recrossing 
his  threshold  he  invokes  its  welcome, —  a  line  thus  not  inele- 
gantly translated  by  Leigh  Hunt, — 

"  Smile  every  dimple  on  the  cheek  of  Home." 

I  entreat  the  reader's  pardon  for  this  long  descriptive  digres- 
sion; but  Isaura  is  one  of  those  characters  which  are  called 
many-sided,  and  therefore  not  very  easy  to  comprehend.  She 
gives  us  one  side  of  her  character  in  her  correspondence 
with  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  and  another  side  of  it  in  her 
own  home  with  her  Italian  companion, —  half  nurse,  half 
chaperon. 

"Monsieur  Louvier  is  indeed  very  courteous,"  said  Isaura, 
looking  up  from  the  flowers  with  the  dimpled  smile  we  have 
noticed.  "But  I  think,  Madre,  that  we  should  do  well  to  stay 
at  home  on  Saturday, —  not  peacefully,  for  I  owe  you  your 
revenge  at  Euchre." 

"You  can't  mean  it,  Piccolo,!"  exclaimed  the  Signora,  in 
evident  consternation.  "  Stay  at  home !  —  why  stay  at  home? 
Euchre  is  very  well  when  there  is  nothing  else  to  do:  but 
change  is  pleasant;  le  bon  Dieu  likes  it, — 

"  '  Ne  caldo  ne  gelo 
Resta  mai  in  cielo.' 

And  such  beautiful  ices  one  gets  at  M.  Louvier's!  Did  you 
taste  the  pistachio  ice?  What  fine  rooms,  and  so  well  lit 
up!  I  adore  light.  And  the  ladies  so  beautifully  dressed: 
one  sees  the  fashions.  Stay  at  home!  play  at  Euchre  in- 
deed! Ptccola,  you  cannot  be  so  cruel  to  yourself:  you  are 
young." 


98  THE  PARISIANS. 

"But,  dear  Madre,  just  consider;  we  are  invited  because 
we  are  considered  professional  singers:  your  reputation  as 
such  is  of  course  established, —  mine  is  not  ;  but  still  I  shall 
be  asked  to  sing,  as  I  was  asked  before ;  and  you  know  Dr. 

C forbids  me  to  do  so  except  to  a  very  small  audience ; 

and  it  is  so  ungracious  always  to  say  'No; '  and  besides,  did 
you  not  yourself  say,  when  we  came  away  last  time  from  M. 
Louvier's,  that  it  was  very  dull,  that  you  knew  nobody,  and 
that  the  ladies  had  such  superb  toilets  that  you  felt  mortified 
—  and—" 

"  Zitto  !  zitto  !  you  talk  idly,  Piccola, —  very  idly.  I  was 
mortified  then  in  my  old  black  Lyons  silk;  but  have  I  not 
bought  since  then  my  beautiful  Greek  jacket, —  scarlet  and 
gold  lace?  and  why  should  I  buy  it  if  I  am  not  to  show  it?" 

"  But,  dear  Madre,  the  jacket  is  certainly  very  handsome, 
and  will  make  an  effect  in  a  little  dinner  at  the  Savarins  or 
Mrs.  Morley's;  but  in  a  great  formal  reception  like  M. 
Louvier's  will  it  not  look  —  " 

"Splendid!"  interrupted  the  Signora. 

"But  singolare." 

"So  much  the  better;  did  not  that  great  English  Lady  wear 
such  a  jacket,  and  did  not  every  one  admire  her,  piu  tosto  in- 
vidia  che  compassione  ?  " 

Isaura  sighed.  Now  the  jacket  of  the  Signora  was  a  sub- 
ject of  disquietude  to  her  friend.  It  so  happened  that  a 
young  English  lady  of  the  highest  rank  and  the  rarest  beauty 
had  appeared  at  M.  Louvier's,  and  indeed  generally  in  the 
beau  monde  of  Paris,  in  a  Greek  jacket  that  became  her  very 
much.  The  jacket  had  fascinated,  at  M.  Louvier's,  the  eyes 
of  the  Signora.  But  of  this  Isaura  was  unaware.  The  Sig- 
nora, on  returning  home  from  M.  Louvier's,  had  certainly 
lamented  much  over  the  mesquin  appearance  of  her  old-fash- 
ioned Italian  habiliments  compared  with  the  brilliant  toilette 
of  the  gay  Parisiennes;  and  Isaura  —  quite  woman  enough  to 
sympathize  with  woman  in  such  womanly  vanities  —  pro- 
posed the  next  day  to  go  with  the  Signora  to  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal couturieres  of  Paris,  and  adapt  the  Signora's  costume 
to  the  fashions  of  the  place.  But  the  Signora  having  prede- 


THE  PARISIANS.  99 

termined  on  a  Greek  jacket,  and  knowing  by  instinct  that 
Isaura  would  be  disposed  to  thwart  that  splendid  predilection, 
had  artfully  suggested  that  it  would  be  better  to  go  to  the 
couturiere  with  Madame  Savarin,  as  being  a  more  experienced 
adviser, —  and  the  coup&  only  held  two. 

As  Madame  Savarin  was  about  the  same  age  as  the  Signora, 
and  dressed  as  became  her  years  and  in  excellent  taste,  Isaura 
thought  this  an  admirable  suggestion;  and  pressing  into  her 
chaperon's  hand  a  billet  de  banque  sufficient  to  re-equip  her 
cap-a-pie,  dismissed  the  subject  from  her  mind.  But  the  Sig- 
nora was  much  too  cunning  to  submit  her  passion  for  the 
Greek  jacket  to  the  discouraging  comments  of  Madame  Sava- 
rin. Monopolizing  the  coupe,  she  became  absolute  mistress 
of  the  situation.  She  went  to  no  fashionable  couturiere' }s. 
She  went  to  a  manasin  that  she  had  seen  advertised  in  the 
Petites  Affickes  as  supplying  superb  costumes  for  fancy-balls 
and  amateur  performers  in  private  theatricals.  She  returned 
home  triumphant,  with  a  jacket  still  more  dazzling  to  the  eye 
than  that  of  the  English  lady. 

When  Isaura  first  beheld  it,  she  drew  back  in  a  sort  of 
superstitious  terror,  as  of  a  comet  or  other  blazing  portent. 

"  Cosa  stupenda  !  "  (stupendous  thing!")  She  might  well 
be  dismayed  when  the  Signora  proposed  to  appear  thus  attired 
in  M.  Louvier's  salon.  What  might  be  admired  as  coquetry 
of  dress  in  a  young  beauty  of  rank  so  great  that  even  a  vul- 
garity in  her  would  be  called  distinguee,  was  certainly  an 
audacious  challenge  of  ridicule  in  the  elderly  ci-devant  music- 
teacher. 

But  how  could  Isaura,  how  can  any  one  of  common  human- 
ity, say  to  a  woman  resolved  upon  wearing  a  certain  dress, 
"You  are  not  young  and  handsome  enough  for  that?" 
Isaura  could  only  murmur,  "  For  many  reasons  I  would  rather 
stay  at  home,  dear  Madre." 

"Ah!  I  see  you  are  ashamed  of  me,"  said  the  Signora,  in 
softened  tones :  "  very  natural.  When  the  nightingale  sings 
no  more,  she  is  only  an  ugly  brown  bird;"  and  therewith 
the  Signora  Venosta  seated  herself  submissively,  and  began 
to  cry. 


100  THE  PARISIANS. 

On  this  Isaura  sprang  up,  wound  her  arms  round  the  Sig- 
nora's  neck,  soothed  her  with  coaxing,  kissed  and  petted  her, 
and  ended  by  saying,  "Of  course  we  will  go;"  and,  "but  let 
me  choose  you  another  dress,  —  a  dark-green  velvet  trimmed 
with  blonde:  blonde  becomes  you  so  well." 

"'No,  no:  I  hate  green  velvet;  anybody  can  wear  that. 
Piccola,  I  am  not  clever  like  thee;  I  cannot  amuse  myself 
like  thee  with  books.  I  am  in  a  foreign  land.  I  have  a 
poor  head,  but  I  have  a  big  heart "  (another  burst  of  tears) ; 
"and  that  big  heart  is  set  on  my  beautiful  Greek  jacket." 

"Dearest  Madre,"  said  Isaura,  half  weeping  too,  "forgive 
me,  you  are  right.  The  Greek  jacket  is  splendid ;  I  shall  be 
so  pleased  to  see  you  wear  it:  poor  Madre!  so  pleased  to 
think  that  in  the  foreign  land  you  are  not  without  something 
that  pleases  you  !  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

CONFORMABLY  with  his  engagement  to  meet  M.  Louvier, 
Alain  found  himself  on  the  day  and  at  the  hour  named  in 
M.  Gandrin's  salon.  On  this  occasion  Madame  Gandrin  did 
not  appear.  Her  husband  was  accustomed  to  give  diners 
d'hommes.  The  great  man  had  not  yet  arrived.  "I  think, 
Marquis,"  said  M.  Gandrin,  "that  you  will  not  regret  having 
followed  my  advice :  my  representations  have  disposed  Louvier 
to  regard  you  with  much  favour,  and  he  is  certainly  flattered 
by  being  permitted  to  make  your  personal  acquaintance." 

The  avoii6  had  scarcely  finished  this  little  speech,  when  M. 
Louvier  was  announced.  He  entered  with  a  beaming  smile, 
which  did  not  detract  from  his  imposing  presence.  His  flat- 
terers had  told  him  that  he  had  a  look  of  Louis  Philippe; 
therefore  he  had  sought  to  imitate  the  dress  and  the  bonhomie 
of  that  monarch  of  the  middle  class.  He  wore  a  wig,  elabo- 
rately piled  up,  and  shaped  his  whiskers  in  royal  harmony 
with  the  royal  wig.  Above  all,  he  studied  that  social  frank- 


THE   PARISIANS.  101 

ness  of  manner  with  which  the  able  sovereign  dispelled  awe 
of  his  presence  or  dread  of  his  astuteness.  Decidedly  he  was 
a  man  very  pleasant  to  converse  and  to  deal  with  —  so  long  as 
there  seemed  to  him  something  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose  by 
being  pleasant.  He  returned  Alain's  bow  by  a  cordial  offer 
of  both  expansive  hands,  into  the  grasp  of  which  the  hands 
of  the  aristocrat  utterly  disappeared.  "Charmed  to  make 
your  acquaintance,  Marquis;  still  more  charmed  if  you  will 
let  me  be  useful  during  your  sejour  at  Paris.  Mafoi,  excuse 
my  bluntness,  but  you  are  a  fort  beau  garcon.  Monsieur 
your  father  was  a  handsome  man,  but  you  beat  him  hollow. 
Gandrin,  my  friend,  would  not  you  and  I  give  half  our  for- 
tunes for  one  year  of  this  fine  fellow's  youth  spent  at  Paris? 
Peste  !  what  love-letters  we  should  have,  with  no  need  to  buy 
them  by  billets  de  banyue  !  "  Thus  he  ran  on,  much  to  Alain's 
confusion,  till  dinner  was  announced.  Then  there  was  some- 
thing grandiose  in  the  frank  bourgeois  style  wherewith  he  ex- 
panded his  napkin  and  twisted  one  end  into  his  waistcoat ;  it 
was  so  manly  a  renunciation  of  the  fashions  which  a  man  so 
repandu  in  all  circles  might  be  supposed  to  follow,  —  as  if 
he  were  both  too  great  and  too  much  in  earnest  for  such 
frivolities.  He  was  evidently  a  sincere  bon  vivant,  and  M. 
Gandrin  had  no  less  evidently  taken  all  requisite  pains  to 
gratify  his  taste.  The  Montrachet  served  with  the  oysters 
was  of  precious  vintage;  that  vin  de  madere  which  accom- 
panied the  potage  a  la  bisque  would  have  contented  an  Ameri- 
can. And  how  radiant  became  Louvier's  face  when  amongst 
the  entrees  he  came  upon  laitances  de  carpes !  "  The  best 
thing  in  the  world,"  he  cried,  "and  one  gets  it  so  seldom 
since  the  old  Kocher  de  Cancale  has  lost  its  renown.  At 
private  houses,  what  does  one  get  now?  blanc  de  poidet, — 
flavourless  trash.  After  all,  Gandrin,  when  we  lose  the 
love-letters,  it  is  some  consolation  that  laitances  de  carpes  and 
sautes  de  foie  gras  are  still  left  to  fill  up  the  void  in  our 
hearts.  Marquis,  heed  my  counsel;  cultivate  betimes  the 
taste  for  the  table,  —  that  and  whist  are  the  sole  resources  of 
declining  years.  You  never  met  my  old  friend  Talleyrand  — 
ah,  no !  he  was  long  before  your  time.  He  cultivated  both, 


102  THE  PARISIANS. 

but  he  made  two  mistakes.  No  man's  intellect  is  perfect  on 
all  sides.  He  confined  himself  to  one  meal  a  day,  and  he 
never  learned  to  play  well  at  whist.  Avoid  his  errors,  my 
young  friend,  —  avoid  them.  G-andrin,  I  guess  this  pine- 
apple is  English, —  it  is  superb." 

"You  are  right, —  a  present  from  the  Marquis  of  H ." 

"  Ah!  instead  of  a  fee,  I  wager.  The  Marquis  gives  noth- 
ing for  nothing,  dear  man!  Droll  people  the  English.  You 
have  never  visited  England,  I  presume,  cher  Rochebriant  ? " 

The  affable  financier  had  already  made  vast  progress  in 
familiarity  with  his  silent  fellow-guest. 

When  the  dinner  was  over  and  the  three  men  had  re- 
entered  the  salon  for  coffee  and  liqueurs,  Gandrin  left  Louvier 
and  Alain  alone,  saying  he  was  going  to  his  cabinet  for  cigars 
which  he  could  recommend.  Then  Louvier,  lightly  patting 
the  Marquis  on  the  shoulder,  said  with  what  the  French  call 
effusion,  "My  dear  Rochebriant,  your  father  and  I  did  not 
quite  understand  each  other.  He  took  a  tone  of  grand 
seif/neur  that  sometimes  wounded  me;  and  I  in  turn  was 
perhaps  too  rude  in  asserting  my  rights  —  as  creditor,  shall 
I  say?  —  no,  as  fellow-citizen;  and  Frenchmen  are  so  vain, 
so  over-susceptible;  fire  up  at  a  word;  take  offence  when 
none  is  meant.  We  two,  my  dear  boy,  should  be  superior  to 
such  national  foibles.  Bref — I  have  a  mortgage  on  your 
lands.  Why  should  that  thought  mar  our  friendship?  At 
my  age,  though  I  am  not  yet  old,  one  is  flattered  if  the  young 
like  us,  pleased  if  we  can  oblige  them,  and  remove  from  their 
career  any  little  obstacle  in  its  way.  Gandrin  tells  me  you 
wish  to  consolidate  all  the  charges  on  your  estate  into  one 
on  a  lower  rate  of  interest.  Is  it  so?" 

"I  am  so  advised,"  said  the  Marquis. 

"  And  very  rightly  advised ;  come  and  talk  with  me  about 
it  some  day  next  week.  I  hope  to  have  a  large  sum  of  money 
set  free  in  a  few  days.  Of  course,  mortgages  on  land  don't 
pay  like  speculations  at  the  Bourse ;  but  I  am  rich  enough  to 
please  myself.  We  will  see,  we  will  see." 

Here  Gandrin  returned  with  the  cigars;  but  Alain  at  that 
time  never  smoked,  and  Louvier  excused  himself,  with  a 


THE   PARISIANS.  103 

laugh  and  a  sly  wink,  on  the  plea  that  he  was  going  to  pay 
his  respects  —  as  doubtless  that  joli  gar$on  was  going  to  do 
likewise  —  to  a  belle  dame  who  did  not  reckon  the  smell  of 
tobacco  among  the  perfumes  of  Houbigant  or  Arabia. 

"Meanwhile,"  added  Louvier,  turning  to  Gandrin,  "I 
have  something  to  say  to  you  on  business  about  the  contract 
for  that  new  street  of  mine.  No  hurry, —  after  our  young 
friend  has  gone  to  his  'assignation.'  " 

Alain  could  not  misinterpret  the  hint;  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments took  leave  of  his  host,  more  surprised  than  disap- 
pointed that  the  financier  had  not  invited  him,  as  Graham 
had  assumed  he  would,  to  his  soiree  the  following  evening. 

When  Alain  was  gone,  Louvier's  jovial  manner  disappeared 
also,  and  became  bluffly  rude  rather  than  bluntly  cordial. 

"Gandrin,  what  did  you  mean  by  saying  that  that  young 
man  was  no  muscadin  f  Muscadin,  aristocrate,  offensive  from 
top  to  toe." 

"You  amaze  me;  you  seemed  to  take  to  him  so  cordially." 

"  And  pray,  were  you  too  blind  to  remark  with  what  cold 
reserve  he  responded  to  my  condescensions ;  how  he  winced 
when  I  called  him  Rochebriant;  how  he  coloured  when  I 
called  him  'dear  boy '  ?  These  aristocrats  think  we  ought  to 
thank  them  on  our  knees  when  they  take  our  money,  and  "  — 
here  Louvier's  face  darkened  —  "seduce  our  women." 

"  Monsieur  Louvier,  in  all  France  I  do  not  know  a  greater 
aristocrat  than  yourself." 

I  don't  know  whether  M.  Gandrin  meant  that  speech  as  a 
compliment,  but  M.  Louvier  took  it  as  such, —  laughed  com- 
placently and  rubbed  his  hands.  "  Ay,  ay,  mlllionnaires  are 
the  real  aristocrats,  for  they  have  power,  as  my  beau  Marquis 
will  soon  find.  I  must  bid  you  good  night.  Of  course  I 
shall  see  Madame  Gandrin  and  yourself  to-morrow.  Prepare 
for  a  motley  gathering, —  lots  of  democrats  and  foreigners, 
with  artists  and  authors,  and  such  creatures." 

"Is  that  the  reason  why  you  did  not  invite  the  Marquis?" 

"To  be  sure;  I  would  not  shock  so  pure  a  Legitimist  by 
contact  with  the  sons  of  the  people,  and  make  him  still 
colder  to  myself.  No;  when  he  comes  to  my  house  he  shall 


104  THE  PARISIANS. 

meet  lions  and  viveurs  of  the  haut  ton,  who  will  play  into  my 
hands  by  teaching  him  how  to  ruin  himself  in  the  quickest 
manner  and  in  the  genre  Regence.  Bonsoir,  mon  vieux." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  next  night  Graham  in  vain  looked  round  for  Alain  in 
M.  Louvier's  salons,  and  missed  his  high-bred  mien  and 
melancholy  countenance.  M.  Louvier  had  been  for  some  four 
years  a  childless  widower,  but  his  receptions  were  not  the 
less  numerously  attended,  nor  his  establishment  less  magnifi- 
cently monte  for  the  absence  of  a  presiding  lady :  very  much 
the  contrary ;  it  was  noticeable  how  much  he  had  increased 
his  status  and.  prestige  as  a  social  personage  since  the  death 
of  his  unlamented  spouse. 

To  say  truth,  she  had  been  rather  a  heavy  drag  on  his  tri- 
umphal car.  She  had  been  the  heiress  of  a  man  who  had 
amassed  a  great  deal  of  money, —  not  in  the  higher  walks  of 
commerce,  but  in  a  retail  trade. 

Louvier  himself  was  the  son  of  a  rich  money-lender;  he 
had  entered  life  with  an  ample  fortune  and  an  intense  desire 
to  be  admitted  into  those  more  brilliant  circles  in  which  for- 
tune can  be  dissipated  with  eclat.  He  might  not  have  at- 
tained this  object  but  for  the  friendly  countenance  of  a  young 
noble  who  was  then  — 

"  The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form ;  " 

but  this  young  noble,  of  whom  later  we  shall  hear  more, 
came  suddenly  to  grief,  and  when  the  money-lender's  son  lost 
that  potent  protector,  the  dandies,  previously  so  civil,  showed 
him  a  very  cold  shoulder. 

Louvier  then  became  an  ardent  democrat,  and  recruited  the 
fortune  he  had  impaired  by  the  aforesaid  marriage,  launched 
into  colossal  speculations,  and  became  enormously  rich.  His 
aspirations  for  social  rank  now  revived,  but  his  wife  sadty 


THE  PARISIANS.  105 

interfered  with  them.  She  was  thrifty  by  nature;  sympa- 
thized little  with  her  husband's  genius  for  accumulation; 
always  said  he  would  end  in  a  hospital ;  hated  Republicans ; 
despised  authors  and  artists,  and  by  the  ladies  of  the  beau 
monde  was  pronounced  common  and  vulgar. 

So  long  as  she  lived,  it  was  impossible  for  Louvier  to  real- 
ize his  ambition  of  having  one  of  the  salons  which  at  Paris 
establish  celebrity  and  position.  He  could  not  then  command 
those  advantages  of  wealth  which  he  especially  coveted.  He 
was  eminently  successful  in  doing  this  now.  As  soon  as  she 
was  safe  in  Pere  la  Chaise,  he  enlarged  his  hotel  by  the  pur- 
chase and  annexation  of  an  adjoining  house ;  redecorated  and 
refurnished  it,  and  in  this  task  displayed,  it  must  be  said  to 
his  credit,  or  to  that  of  the  administrators  he  selected  for  the 
purpose,  a  nobleness  of  taste  rarely  exhibited  nowadays.  His 
collection  of  pictures  was  not  large,  and  consisted  exclusively 
of  the  French  school,  ancient  and  modern,  for  in  all  things 
Louvier  affected  the  patriot.  But  each  of  those  pictures  was 
a  gem;  such  Watteaus,  such  Greuzes,  such  landscapes  by 
Patel,  and,  above  all,  such  masterpieces  by  Ingres,  Horace 
Vernet,  and  Delaroche  were  worth  all  the  doubtful  originals 
of  Flemish  and  Italian  art  which  make  the  ordinary  boast  of 
private  collectors. 

These  pictures  occupied  two  rooms  of  moderate  size,  built 
for  their  reception,  and  lighted  from  above.  The  great  salon 
to  which  they  led  contained  treasures  scarcely  less  precious ; 
the  walls  were  covered  with  the  richest  silks  which  the  looms 
of  Lyons  could  produce.  Every  piece  of  furniture  here  was  a 
work  of  art  in  its  way :  console-tables  of  Florentine  mosaic, 
inlaid  with  pearl  and  lapis-lazuli ;  cabinets  in  which  the  ex- 
quisite designs  of  the  Renaissance  were  carved  in  ebony;  co- 
lossal vases  of  Russian  malachite,  but  wrought  by  French 
artists.  The  very  knick-knacks  scattered  carelessly  about  the 
room  might  have  been  admired  in  the  cabinets  of  the  Palazzo 
Pitti.  Beyond  this  room  lay  the  salle  de  danse,  its  ceiling 

painted  by ,  supported  by  white  marble  columns,  the  glazed 

balcony  and  the  angles  of  the  room  filled  with  tiers  of  exotics. 
In  the  dining-room,  on  the  same  floor,  on  the  other  side  of 


106  THE  PARISIANS. 

the  landing-place,  were  stored  in  glazed  buffets  not  only  ves- 
sels and  salvers  of  plate,  silver  and  gold,  but,  more  costly 
still,  matchless  specimens  of  Sevres  and  Limoges,  and  mediae- 
val varieties  of  Venetian  glass.  On  the  ground-floor,  which 
opened  on  the  lawn  of  a  large  garden,  Louvier  had  his  suite 
of  private  apartments,  furnished,  as  he  said,  "simply,  ac- 
cording to  English  notions  of  comfort, "  —  Englishmen  would 
have  said,  "according  to  French  notions  of  luxury."  Enough 
of  these  details,  which  a  writer  cannot  give  without  feeling 
himself  somewhat  vulgarized  in  doing  so,  but  without  a  loose 
general  idea  of  which  a  reader  would  not  have  an  accurate 
conception  of  something  not  vulgar, —  of  something  grave, 
historical,  possibly  tragical, —  the  existence  of  a  Parisian  mil- 
lionnaire  at  the  date  of  this  narrative. 

The  evidence  of  wealth  was  everywhere  manifest  at  M. 
Louvier 's,  but  it  was  everywhere  refined  by  an  equal  evi- 
dence of  taste.  The  apartments  devoted  to  hospitality  min- 
istered to  the  delighted  study  of  artists,  to  whom  free  access 
was  given,  and  of  whom  two  or  three  might  be  seen  daily  in 
the  "show-rooms,"  copying  pictures  or  taking  sketches  of 
rare  articles  of  furniture  or  effects  for  palatian  interiors. 

Among  the  things  which  rich  English  visitors  of  Paris 
most  coveted  to  see  was  M.  Louvier's  hotel,  and  few  among 
the  richest  left  it  without  a  sigh  of  envy  and  despair.  Only 
in  such  London  houses  as  belong  to  a  Sutherland  or  a  Holford 
could  our  metropolis  exhibit  a  splendour  as  opulent  and  a 
taste  as  refined. 

M.  Louvier  had  his  set  evenings  for  popular  assemblies. 
At  these  were  entertained  the  Liberals  of  every  shade,  from 
tricolor  to  rouge,  with  the  artists  and  writers  most  in  vogue, 
pele-mele  with  decorated  diplomatists,  ex-ministers,  Orlean- 
ists,  and  Republicans,  distinguished  foreigners,  plutocrats  of 
the  Bourse,  and  lions  male  and  female  from  the  arid  nurse  of 
that  race,  the  Chaussee  d'Antin.  Of  his  more  select  reunions 
something  will  be  said  later. 

"  And  how  does  this  poor  Paris  metamorphosed  please 
Monsieur  Vane?"  asked  a  Frenchman  with  a  handsome,  in- 
telligent countenance,  very  carefully  dressed  though  in  a 


THE  PARISIANS.  107 

somewhat  bygone  fashion,  and  carrying  off  his  tenth  lustrum 
with  an  air  too  sprightly  to  evince  any  sense  of  the  weight. 

This  gentleman,  the  Vicomte  de  Breze,  was  of  good  birth, 
and  had  a  legitimate  right  to  his  title  of  Vicomte, —  which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  of  many  vicomtes  one  meets  at  Paris. 
He  had  no  other  property,  however,  than  a  principal  share  in 
an  influential  journal,  to  which  he  was  a  lively  and  sparkling 
contributor.  In  his  youth,  under  the  reign  of  Louis  Philippe, 
he  had  been  a  chief  among  literary  exquisites ;  and  Balzac  was 
said  to  have  taken  him  more  than  once  as  his  model  for  those 
brilliant  young  vauriens  who  figure  in  the  great  novelist's 
comedy  of  Human  Life.  The  Vieornte's  fashion  expired 
with  the  Orleanist  dynasty. 

"Is  it  possible,  my  dear  Vicomte,"  answered  Graham,  "not 
to  be  pleased  with  a  capital  so  marvellously  embellished?  " 

"Embellished  it  may  be  to  foreign  eyes,"  said  the  Vicomte, 
sighing,  "but  not  improved  to  the  taste  of  a  Parisian  like  me. 
I  miss  the  dear  Paris  of  old,  —  the  streets  associated  with  my 
beaux  jours  are  no  more.  Is  there  not  something  drearily 
monotonous  in  thos3  interminable  perspectives?  How  fright- 
fully the  way  lengthens  before  one's  eyes!  In  the  twists  and 
curves  of  the  old  Paris  one  was  relieved  from  the  pain  of  see- 
ing how  far  one  had  to  go  from  one  spot  to  another, —  each 
tortuous  street  had  a  separate  idiosyncrasy ;  what  picturesque 
diversities,  what  interesting  recollections, —  all  swept  away! 
Mon  Dleuf  and  what  for,  —  miles  of  florid  facades  staring  and 
glaring  at  one  with  goggle-eyed  pitiless  windows ;  house-rents 
trebled,  and  the  consciousness  that  if  you  venture  to  grumble 
underground  railways,  like  concealed  volcanoes,  can  burst 
forth  on  you  at  any  moment  with  an  eruption  of  bayonets 
and  muskets.  This  maudit  empire  seeks  to  keep  its  hold  on 
France  much  as  a  grand  seigneur  seeks  to  enchain  a  nymph 
of  the  ballet, —  tricks  her  out  in  finery  and  baubles,  and  in- 
sures her  infidelity  the  moment  he  fails  to  satisfy  her  whims." 

"Vicomte,"  answered  Graham,  "I  have  had  the  honour  to 
know  you  since  I  was  a  small  boy  at  a  preparatory  school 
home  for  the  holidays,  and  you  were  a  guest  at  my  father's 
country-house.  You  were  then  fete  as  one  of  the  most  prom- 


108  THE  PARISIANS. 

ising  writers  among  the  young  men  of  the  day,  especially 
favoured  by  the  princes  of  the  reigning  family.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  impression  made  on  me  by  your  brilliant  appear- 
ance and  your  no  less  brilliant  talk." 

"  Ah!  ces  beaux  jours  !  ce  bon  Louis  Philippe,  ce  cher  petit 
Joinville,"  sighed  the  Vicomte. 

"  But  at  that  day  you  compared  le  bon  Louis  Philippe  to 
Robert  Macaire.  You  described  all  his  sons,  including,  no 
doubt,  ce  cher  petit  Joinville,  in  terms  of  resentful  contempt, 
as  so  many  plausible  gamins  whom  Robert  Macaire  was  train- 
ing to  cheat  the  public  in  the  interest  of  the  family  firm.  I 
remember  my  father  saying  to  you  in  answer,  '  No  royal 
house  in  Europe  has  more  sought  to  develop  the  literature  of 
an  epoch  and  to  signalize  its  representatives  by  social  respect 
and  official  honours  than  that  of  the  Orleans  dynasty.  You, 
Monsieur  de  Braze,  do  but  imitate  your  elders  in  seeking  to 
destroy  the  dynasty  under  which  you  flourish;  should  you 
succeed,  you  homines  de  plume  will  be  the  first  sufferers  and 
the  loudest  complainers.'  ' 

"  Cher  Monsieur  Vane, "  said  the  Vicomte,  smiling  com- 
placently, "your  father  did  me  great  honour  in  classing  me 
with  Victor  Hugo,  Alexandre  Dumas,  Emile  de  Girardin,  and 
the  other  stars  of  the  Orleanist  galaxy,  including  our  friend 
here,  M.  Savarin.  A  very  superior  man  was  your  father." 

"And,"  said  Savarin,  who,  being  an  Orleanist,  had  listened 
to  Graham's  speech  with  an  approving  smile, —  "and  if  I  re- 
member right,  my  dear  De  Breze,  no  one  was  more  brilliantly 
severe  than  yourself  on  poor  De  Lamartine  and  the  Republic 
that  succeeded  Louis  Philippe ;  no  one  more  emphatically  ex- 
pressed the  yearning  desire  for  another  Napoleon  to  restore 
order  at  home  and  renown  abroad.  Now  you  have  got  another 
Napoleon." 

"And  I  want  change  for  my  Napoleon,"  said  De  Breze, 
laughing. 

"My  dear  Vicomte,"  said  Graham,  "one  thing  we  may  all 
grant, — that  in  culture  and  intellect  you  are  far  superior  to 
the  mass  of  your  fellow  Parisians;  that  you  are  therefore  a 
favourable  type  of  their  political  character." 


THE  PARISIANS.  109 

"Ah,  mon  cher,  vous  etes  trop  aimable." 

"And  therefore  I  venture  to  say  this, —  if  the  archangel 
Gabriel  were  permitted  to  descend  to  Paris  and  form  the 
best  government  for  France  that  the  wisdom  of  seraph  could 
devise,  it  would  not  be  two  years  —  I  doubt  if  it  would 
be  six  months  —  before  out  of  this  Paris,  which  you  call 
the  Foyer  des  Idees,  would  emerge  a  powerful  party,  adorned 
by  yourself  and  other  hommes  de  plume,  in  favour  of  a 
revolution  for  the  benefit  of  ce  bon  Satan  and  ce  cher  petit 
Beelzebub." 

"  What  a  pretty  vein  of  satire  you  have,  mon  cher  !  "  said  the 
Vicomte,  good-humouredly ;  "  there  is  a  sting  of  truth  in  your 
witticism.  Indeed,  I  must  send  you  some  articles  of  mine  in 
which  I  have  said  much  the  same  thing, —  les  beaux  esprits  se 
rencontrent.  The  fault  of  us  French  is  impatience,  desire  of 
change;  but  then  it  is  that  desire  which  keeps  the  world  go- 
ing and  retains  our  place  at  the  head  of  it.  However,  at  this 
time  we  are  all  living  too  fast  for  our  money  to  keep  up  with 
it,  and  too  slow  for  our  intellect  not  to  flag.  We  vie  with 
each  other  on  the  road  to  ruin,  for  in  literature  all  the  old 
paths  to  fame  are  shut  up." 

Here  a  tall  gentleman,  with  whom  the  Vicomte  had  been 
conversing  before  he  accosted  Vane,  and  who  had  remained 
beside  De  Breze  listening  in  silent  attention  to  this  colloquy, 
interposed,  speaking  in  the  slow  voice  of  one  accustomed  to 
measure  his  words,  and  with  a  slight  but  unmistakable  Ger- 
man accent.  "  There  is  that,  Monsieur  de  Breze,  which  makes 
one  think  gravely  of  what  you  say  so  lightly.  Viewing  things 
with  the  unprejudiced  eyes  of  a  foreigner,  I  recognize  much 
for  which  France  should  be  grateful  to  the  Emperor.  Under 
his  sway  her  material  resources  have  been  marvellously  aug- 
mented; her  commerce  has  been  placed  by  the  treaty  with 
England  on  sounder  foundations,  and  is  daily  exhibiting 
richer  life;  her  agriculture  had  made  a  prodigious  advance 
wherever  it  has  allowed  room  for  capitalists,  and  escaped 
from  the  curse  of  petty  allotments  and  peasant-proprietors, — 
a  curse  which  would  have  ruined  any  country  less  blessed  by 
Nature;  turbulent  factions  have  been  quelled;  internal  order 


110  THE  PARISIANS. 

maintained;  the  external  prestige  of  France,  up  at  least  to 
the  date  of  the  Mexican  war,  increased  to  an  extent  that 
might  satisfy  even  a  Frenchman's  amour  propre  ;  and  her  ad- 
vance in  civilization  has  been  manifested  by  the  rapid  crea- 
tion of  a  naval  power  which  should  put  even  Englaj'd  on  her 
mettle.  But,  on  the  other  hand  —  " 

"Ay,  on  the  other  hand,"  said  the  Vicomte. 

"On  the  other  hand  there  are  in  the  imperial  system  two 
causes  of  decay  and  of  rot  silently  at  work,  The  /  may  not 
be  the  faults  of  the  Emperor,  but  they  are  aiuii  n, ^fortunes 
as  may  cause  the  fall  of  the  Empire.  The  first  is  an  absolute 
divorce  between  the  political  system  and  the  intellectual  cul- 
ture of  the  nation.  The  throne  and  the  system  rest  on  uni- 
versal suffrage, —  on  a  suffrage  which  gives  to  classes  the 
most  ignorant  a  power  that  preponderates  over  all  the  health- 
ful elements  of  knowledge.  It  is  the  tendency  of  all  ignorant 
multitudes  to  personify  themselves,  as  it  were,  in  one  indi- 
vidual. They  cannot  comprehend  you  when  you  argue  for  a 
principle ;  they  do  comprehend  you  when  you  talk  of  a  name. 
The  Emperor  Napoleon  is  to  them  a  name,  and  the  prefects 
and  officials  who  influence  their  votes  are  paid  for  incorpora- 
ting all  principles  in  the  shibboleth  of  that  single  name. 
You  have  thus  sought  the  well-spring  of  a  political  system  in 
the  deepest  stratum  of  popular  ignorance.  To  rid  popular 
ignorance  of  its  normal  revolutionary  bias,  the  rural  peasants 
are  indoctrinated  with  the  conservatism  that  comes  from  the 
fear  which  appertains  to  property.  They  have  their  roods  of 
land  or  their  shares  in  a  national  loan.  Thus  you  estrange 
the  crassitude  of  an  ignorant  democracy  still  more  from  the 
intelligence  of  the  educated  classes  by  combining  it  with  the 
most  selfish  and  abject  of  all  the  apprehensions  that  are  as- 
cribed to  aristocracy  and  wealth.  What  is  thus  embedded  in 
the  depths  of  your  society  makes  itself  shown  on  the  surface. 
Napoleon  III.  has  been  compared  to  Augustus ;  and  there  are 
many  startling  similitudes  between  them  in  character  and  in 
fate.  Each  succeeds  to  the  heritage  of  a  great  name  that  had 
contrived  to  unite  autocracy  with  the  popular  cause ;  each 
subdued  all  rival  competitors,  and  inaugurated  despotic  rule 


THE   PARISIANS.  Ill 

in  the  name  of  freedom;  each  mingled  enough  of  sternness 
with  ambitious  will  to  stain  with  bloodshed  the  commence- 
ment of  his  power,  —  but  it  would  be  an  absurd  injustice  to  fix 
the  same  degree  of  condemnation  on  the  coup  d'etat  as  hu- 
manity fixes  on  the  earlier  cruelties  of  Augustus;  each,  once 
firm  in  his  seat,  became  mild  and  clement, —  Augustus  per- 
haps from  policy,  Napoleon  III.  from  a  native  kindliness  of 
disposition  which  no  fair  critic  of  character  can  fail  to  ac- 
knowledge. Enough  of  similitudes;  now  for  one  salient  dif- 
ference. Observe  how  earnestly  Augustus  strove,  and  how 
completely  he  succeeded  in  the  task,  to  rally  round  him  all 
the  leading  intellects  in  every  grade  and  of  every  party,  —  the 
followers  of  Antony,  the  friends  of  Brutus;  every  great  cap- 
tain, every  great  statesman,  every  great  writer,  every  man 
who  could  lend  a  ray  of  mind  to  his  own  Julian  constellation, 
and  make  the  age  of  Augustus  an  era  in  the  annals  of  human 
intellect  and  genius.  But  this  has  not  been  the  good  fortune 
of  your  Emperor.  The  result  of  his  system  has  been  the  sup- 
pression of « intellect  in  every  department.  He  has  rallied 
round  him  not  one  great  statesman;  his  praises  are  hymned 
by  not  one  great  poet.  The  c&lebrit6s  of  a  former  day  stand 
aloof;  or,  preferring  exile  to  constrained  allegiance,  assail 
him  with  unremitting  missiles  from  their  asylum  in  foreign 
shores.  His  reign  is  sterile  of  new  c6Ubrites.  The  few 
that  arise  enlist  themselves  against  him.  Whenever  he  shall 
venture  to  give  full  freedom  to  the  press  and  to  the  legisla- 
ture, the  intellect  thus  suppressed  or  thus  hostile  will  burst 
forth  in  collected  volume.  His  partisans  have  not  been 
trained  and  disciplined  to  meet  such  assailants.  They  will 
be  as  weak  as  no  doubt  they  will  be  violent.  And  the  worst 
is,  that  the  intellect  thus  rising  in  mass  against  him  will  be 
warped  and  distorted,  like  captives  who,  being  kept  in  chains, 
exercise  their  limbs  on  escaping  in  vehement  jumps  without 
definite  object.  The  directors  of  emancipated  opinion  may 
thus  be  terrible  enemies  to  the  Imperial  Government,  but 
they  will  be  very  unsafe  councillors  to  France.  Concurrently 
with  this  divorce  between  the  Imperial  system  and  the  na- 
tional intellect, —  a  divorce  so  complete  that  even  your  salons 


112  THE  PARISIANS. 

have  lost  their  wit,  and  even  your  caricatures  their  point, —  a 
corruption  of  manners  which  the  Empire,  I  own,  did  not 
originate,  but  inherit,  has  become  so  common  that  every  one 
owns  and  nobody  blames  it.  The  gorgeous  ostentation  of  the 
Court  has  perverted  the  habits  of  the  people.  The  intelli- 
gence abstracted  from  other  vents  betakes  itself  to  specula- 
ting for  a  fortune;  and  the  greed  of  gain  and  the  passion 
for  show  are  sapping  the  noblest  elements  of  the  old  French 
manhood.  Public  opinion  stamps  with  no  opprobrium  a 
minister  or  favourite  who  profits  by  a  job;  and  I  fear  you 
will  find  that  jobbing  pervades  all  your  administrative 
departments." 

"All  very  true,"  said  De  Bre'ze',  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  and  in  a  tone  of  levity  that  seemed  to  ridicule 
the  assertion  he  volunteered ;  "  Virtue  and  Honour  banished 
from  courts  and  salons  and  the  cabinet  of  authors  ascend  to 
fairer  heights  in  the  attics  of  ouvriers." 

"  The  ouvriers,  ouvriers  of  Paris ! "  cried  this  terrible 
German. 

"Ay,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  what  can  you  say  against  our 
ouvriers  ?  A  German  count  cannot  condescend  to  learn  any- 
thing about  ces  petites  gens." 

"Monsieur,"  replied  the  German,  "in  the  eyes  of  a  states- 
man there  are  no  petites  gens,  and  in  those  of  a  philosopher 
no  petites  choses.  We  in  Germany  have  too  many  difficult 
problems  affecting  our  working  classes  to  solve,  not  to  have 
induced  me  to  glean  all  the  information  I  can  as  to  the  ouv- 
riers of  Paris.  They  have  among  them  men  of  aspirations  as 
noble  as  can  animate  the  souls  of  philosophers  and  poets, — 
perhaps  not  the  less  noble  because  common-sense  and  experi- 
ence cannot  follow  their  flight;  but  as  a  body  the  ouvriers  of 
Paris  have  not  been  elevated  in  political  morality  by  the  be- 
nevolent aim  of  the  Emperor  to  find  them  ample  work  and 
good  wages  independent  of  the  natural  laws  that  regulate 
the  markets  of  labour.  Accustomed  thus  to  consider  the 
State  bound  to  maintain  them,  the  moment  the  State  fails  in 
that  impossible  task,  they  will  accommodate  their  honesty 
to  a  rush  upon  property  under  the  name  of  social  reform. 


THE  PARISIANS.  113 

Have  you  not  noticed  how  largely  increased  within  the  last 
few  years  is  the  number  of  those  who  cry  out,  '  La  Propri£te, 
c'est  le  vol '  ?  Have  you  considered  the  rapid  growth  of  the 
International  Association?  I  do  not  say  that  for  all  these 
evils  the  Empire  is  exclusively  responsible.  To  a  certain 
degree  they  are  found  in  all  rich  communities,  especially 
where  democracy  is  more  or  less  in  the  ascendant.  To  a 
certain  extent  they  exist  in  the  large  towns  of  Germany;  they 
are  conspicuously  increasing  in  England;  they  are  acknowl- 
edged to  be  dangerous  in  the  United  States  of  America ;  they 
are,  I  am  told  on  good  authority,  making  themselves  visible 
with  the  spread  of  civilization  in  Russia.  But  under  the 
French  Empire  they  have  become  glaringly  rampant,  and  I 
venture  to  predict  that  the  day  is  not  far  off  when  the  rot  at 
work  throughout  all  layers  and  strata  of  French  society  will 
insure  a  fall  of  the  fabric  at  the  sound  of  which  the  world 
will  ring. 

"  There  is  many  a  fair  and  stately  tree  which  continues  to 
throw  out  its  leaves  and  rear  its  crest  till  suddenly  the  wind 
smites  it,  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  the  trunk  which  seems 
so  solid  is  found  to  be  but  the  rind  to  a  mass  of  crumbled 
powder." 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  the  Vicomte,  "you  are  a  severe 
critic  and  a  lugubrious  prophet ;  but  a  German  is  so  safe  from 
revolution  that  he  takes  alarm  at  the  stir  of  movement  which 
is  the  normal  state  of  the  French  esprit." 

"French  esprit  may  soon  evaporate  into  Parisian  betise.  As 
to  Germany  being  safe  from  revolution,  allow  me  to  repeat 
a  saying  of  Goethe's  —  but  has  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  ever 
heard  of  Goethe?" 

"Goethe,  of  course, —  tres  joli  forivain." 

"  Goethe  said  to  some  one  who  was  making  much  the  same 
remark  as  yourself,  '  "We  Germans  are  in  a  state  of  revolution 
now,  but  we  do  things  so  slowly  that  it  will  be  a  hundred 
years  before  we  Germans  shall  find  it  out;  but  when  com- 
pleted, it  will  be  the  greatest  revolution  society  has  yet  seen, 
and  will  last  like  the  other  revolutions  that,  beginning,  scarce 
noticed,  in  Germany,  have  transformed  the  world. ' ' 


114  THE  PARISIANS. 

"Liable,  Monsieur  le  Comte!  Germans  transformed  the 
world!  What  revolutions  do  you  speak  of?" 

"The  invention  of  gunpowder,  the  invention  of  printing, 
and  the  expansion  of  a  monk's  quarrel  with  his  Pope  into 
the  Lutheran  revolution." 

Here  the  German  paused,  and  asked  the  Vicomte  to  intro- 
duce him  to  Vane,  which  De  Br4z6  did  by  the  title  of  Count 
von  Rudesheim.  On  hearing  Vane's  name,  the  Count  inquired 
if  he  were  related  to  the  orator  and  statesman,  George  Graham 
Vane,  whose  opinions,  uttered  in  Parliament,  were  still  au- 
thoritative among  German  thinkers.  This  compliment  to  his 
deceased  father  immensely  gratified  but  at  the  same  time  con- 
siderably surprised  the  Englishman.  His  father,  no  doubt, 
had  been  a  man  of  much  influence  in  the  British  House  of 
Commons,  —  a  very  weighty  speaker,  and,  while  in  office,  a 
first-rate  administrator;  but  Englishmen  know  what  a  House 
of  Commons  reputation  is, —  how  fugitive,  how  little  cosmo- 
politan ;  and  that  a  German  count  should  ever  have  heard  of 
his  father  delighted  but  amazed  him.  In  stating  himself  to 
be  the  son  of  George  Graham  Vane,  he  intimated  not  only 
the  delight  but  the  amaze,  with  the  frank  savoir  vivre  which 
was  one  of  his  salient  characteristics. 

"Sir,"  replied  the  German,  speaking  in  very  correct  Eng- 
lish, but  still  with  his  national  accent,  "every  German  reared 
to  political  service  studies  England  as  the  school  for  practical 
thought  distinct  from  impracticable  theories.  Long  may  you 
allow  us  to  do  so!  Only  excuse  me  one  remark, —  never  let 
the  selfish  element  of  the  practical  supersede  the  generous  ele- 
ment. Your  father  never  did  so  in  his  speeches,  and  therefore 
\ve  admired  him.  At  the  present  day  we  don't  so  much  care 
to  study  English  speeches;  they  may  be  insular, —  they  are 
not  European.  I  honour  England;  Heaven  grant  that  you 
may  not  be  making  sad  mistakes  in  the  belief  that  you  can 
long  remain  England  if  you  cease  to  be  European."  Here- 
with the  German  bowed,  not  uncivilly, —  on  the  contrary, 
somewhat  ceremoniously, —  and  disappeared  with  a  Prussian 
Secretary  of  Embassy,  whose  arm  he  linked  in  his  own,  into 
a  room  less  frequented. 


THE  PARISIANS.  115 

"Vicomte,  who  and  what  is  your  German  count?"  asked 
Vane. 

"A  solemn  pedant,"  answered  the  lively  Vicomte, —  "a 
German  count,  que  voulez-vous  de  plus  ? }; 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  LITTLE  later  Graham  found  himself  alone  amongst  the 
crowd.  Attracted  by  the  sound  of  music,  he  had  strayed 
into  one  of  the  rooms  whence  it  came,  and  in  which,  though 
his  range  of  acquaintance  at  Paris  was  for  an  Englishman 
large  and  somewhat  miscellaneous,  he  recognized  no  familiar 
countenance.  A  lady  was  playing  the  pianoforte  —  playing 
remarkably  well  —  with  accurate  science,  with  that  equal 
lightness  and  strength  of  finger  which  produces  brilliancy 
of  execution;  but  to  appreciate  her  music  one  should  be 
musical  one's  self.  It  wanted  the  charm  that  fascinates  the 
uninitiated.  The  guests  in  the  room  were  musical  connois- 
seurs, —  a  class  with  whom  Graham  Vane  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon. Even  if  he  had  been  more  capable  of  enjoying  the 
excellence  of  the  player's  performance,  the  glance  he  directed 
towards  her  would  have  sufficed  to  chill  him  into  indifference. 
She  was  not  young,  and  with  prominent  features  and  puck- 
ered skin,  was  twisting  her  face  into  strange  sentimental 
grimaces,  as  if  terribly  overcome  by  the  beauty  and  pathos  of 
her  own  melodies.  To  add  to  Vane's  displeasure,  she  was 
dressed  in  a  costume  wholly  antagonistic  to  his  views  of  the 
becoming,  —  in  a  Greek  jacket  of  gold  and  scarlet,  contrasted 
by  a  Turkish  turban. 

Muttering  "What  she -mountebank  have  we  here?  "  he  sank 
into  a  chair  behind  the  door,  and  fell  into  an  absorbed  revery. 
From  this  he  was  aroused  by  the  cessation  of  the  music  and 
the  hum  of  subdued  approbation  by  which  it  was  followed. 
Above  the  hum  swelled  the  imposing  voice  of  M.  Louvier 


116  THE  PARISIANS. 

as  he  rose  from  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  piano,  by 
which  his  bulky  form  had  been  partially  concealed. 

"Bravo!  perfectly  played!  excellent!  Can  we  not  per- 
suade your  charming  young  countrywoman  to  gratify  us  even 
by  a  single  song?  "  Then  turning  aside  and  addressing  some 
one  else  invisible  to  Graham  he  said,  "  Does  that  tyrannical 
doctor  still  compel  you  to  silence,  Mademoiselle?" 

A  voice  so  sweetly  modulated  that  if  there  were  any  sar- 
casm in  the  words  it  was  lost  in  the  softness  of  pathos,  an- 
swered, "  Nay,  Monsieur  Louvier,  he  rather  overtasks  the  words 
at  my  command  in  thankfulness  to  those  who  like  yourself,  so 
kindly  regard  me  as  something  else  than  a  singer." 

It  was  not  the  she-mountebank  who  thus  spoke.  Graham 
rose  and  looked  round  with  instinctive  curiosity.  He  met 
the  face  that  he  said  had  haunted  him.  She  too  had  risen, 
standing  near  the  piano,  with  one  hand  tenderly  resting  on 
the  she-mountebank's  scarlet  and  gilded  shoulder, —  the  face 
that  haunted  him,  and  yet  with  a  difference.  There  was  a 
faint  blush  on  the  clear  pale  cheek,  a  soft  yet  playful  light 
in  the  grave  dark-blue  eyes,  which  had  not  been  visible 
in  the  countenance  of  the  young  lady  in  the  pearl-coloured 
robe.  Graham  did  not  hear  Louvier 's  reply,  though  no  doubt 
it  was  loud  enough  for  him  to  hear.  He  sank  again  into 
revery.  Other  guests  now  came  into  the  room,  among  them 
Frank  Morley,  styled  Colonel,  —  eminent  military  titles  in 
the  United  States  do  not  always  denote  eminent  military 
services, —  a  wealthy  American,  and  his  sprightly  and  beau- 
tiful wife.  The  Colonel  was  a  clever  man,  rather  stiff  in  his 
deportment,  and  grave  in  speech,  but  by  no  means  without 
a  vein  of  dry  humour.  By  the  French  he  was  esteemed  a 
high-bred  specimen  of  the  kind  of  grand  seigneur  which 
democratic  republics  engender.  He  spoke  French  like  a 
Parisian,  had  an  imposing  presence,  and  spent  a  great  deal 
of  money  with  the  elegance  of  a  man  of  taste  and  the  gener- 
osity of  a  man  of  heart.  His  high  breeding  was  not  quite  so 
well  understood  by  the  English,  because  the  English  are  apt 
to  judge  breeding  by  little  conventional  rules  not  observed  by 
the  American  Colonel.  He  had  a  slight  nasal  twang,  and  in- 


THE  PARISIANS.  117 

troduced  "  sir  "  with  redundant  ceremony  in  addressing  Eng- 
lishmen, however  intimate  he  might  be  with  them,  and  had 
the  habit  (perhaps  with  a  sly  intention  to  startle  or  puzzle 
them)  of  adorning  his  style  of  conversation  with  quaint 
Americanisms. 

Nevertheless,  the  genial  amiability  and  the  inherent  dig- 
nity of  his  character  made  him  acknowledged  as  a  thorough 
gentleman  by  every  Englishman,  however  conventional  in 
tastes,  who  became  admitted  into  his  intimate  acquaintance. 

Mrs.  Morley,  ten  or  twelve  years  younger  than  her  hus- 
band, had  no  nasal  twang,  and  employed  no  Americanisms  in 
her  talk,  which  was  frank,  lively,  and  at  times  eloquent. 
She  had  a  great  ambition  to  be  esteemed  of  a  masculine  un- 
derstanding; Nature  unkindly  frustrated  that  ambition  in 
rendering  her  a  model  of  feminine  grace.  Graham  was  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  Colonel  Morley;  and  with  Mrs. 
Morley  had  contracted  one  of  those  cordial  friendships,  which, 
perfectly  free  alike  from  polite  flirtation  and  Platonic  attach- 
ment, do  sometimes  spring  up  between  persons  of  opposite 
sexes  without  the  slightest  danger  of  changing  their  honest 
character  into  morbid  sentimentality  or  unlawful  passion. 
The  Morleys  stopped  to  accost  Graham,  but  the  lady  had 
scarcely  said  three  words  to  him,  before,  catching  sight  of 
the  haunting  face,  she  darted  towards  it.  Her  husband,  less 
emotional,  bowed  at  the  distance,  and  said,  "To  my  taste, 
sir,  the  Signorina  Cicogna  is  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  present 
bee,1  and  full  of  mind,  sir." 

"Singing  mind,"  said  Graham,  sarcastically,  and  in  the 
ill-natured  impulse  of  a  man  striving  to  check  his  inclination 
to  admire. 

"I  have  not  heard  her  sing,"  replied  the  American,  dryly; 
"and  the  words  '  singing  mind '  are  doubtless  accurately  Eng- 
lish, since  you  employ  them;  but  at  Boston  the  collocation 
would  be  deemed  barbarous.  You  fly  off  the  handle.  The 
epithet,  sir,  is  not  in  concord  with  the  substantive." 

"  Boston  would  be  in  the  right,  my  dear  Colonel.  I  stand 
rebuked;  mind  has  little  to  do  with  singing." 

1  Bee,  a  common  expression  in  "  the  West  "  for  a  meeting  or  gathering  of 
people. 


118  THE  PARISIANS. 

"I  take  leave  to  deny  that,  sir.  You  fire  into  the  wrong 
flock,  and  would  not  hazard  the  remark  if  you  had  conversed 
as  I  have  with  Signorina  Cicogna." 

Before  Graham  could  answer,  Signorina  Cicogna  stood  be- 
fore him,  leaning  lightly  on  Mrs.  Morley's  arm. 

"Frank,  you  must  take  us  into  the  refreshment-room," 
said  Mrs.  Morley  to  her  husband;  and  then,  turning  to 
Graham,  added,  "Will  you  help  to  make  way  for  us?" 

Graham  bowed,  and  offered  his  arm  to  the  fair  speaker. 

"No,"  said  she,  taking  her  husband's.  "Of  course  you 
know  the  Signorina,  or,  as  we  usually  call  her,  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna.  No?  Allow  me  to  present  you.  Mr.  Graham 
Vane,  Mademoiselle  Cicogna.  Mademoiselle  speaks  English 
like  a  native." 

And  thus  abruptly  Graham  was  introduced  to  the  owner  of 
the  haunting  face.  He  had  lived  too  much  in  the  great  world 
all  his  life  to  retain  the  innate  shyness  of  an  Englishman ;  but 
he  certainly  was  confused  and  embarrassed  when  his  eyes  met 
Isaura's,  and  he  felt  her  hand  on  his  arm.  Before  quitting 
the  room  she  paused  and  looked  back.  Graham's  look  fol- 
lowed her  own,  and  saw  behind  them  the  lady  with  the  scar- 
let jacket  escorted  by  some  portly  and  decorated  connoisseur. 
Isaura's  face  brightened  to  another  kind  of  brightness, —  a 
pleased  and  tender  light. 

"  Poor  dear  Madre, "  she  murmured  to  herself  in  Italian. 

"  Madre  !  "  echoed  Graham,  also  in  Italian.  "  I  have  been 
misinformed,  then;  that  lady  is  your  mother." 

Isaura  laughed  a  pretty,  low,  silvery  laugh,  and  replied  in 
English,  "  She  is  not  my  mother ;  but  I  call  her  Madre,  for  I 
know  no  name  more  loving." 

Graham  was  touched,  and  said  gently,  "  Your  own  mother 
was  evidently  very  dear  to  you." 

Isaura's  lip  quivered,  and  she  made  a  slight  movement  as 
if  she  would  have  withdrawn  her  hand  from  his  arm.  He 
saw  that  he  had  offended  or  wounded  her,  and  with  the 
straightforward  frankness  natural  to  him,  resumed  quickly, — 

"My  remark  was  impertinent  in  a  stranger;  forgive  it." 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Monsieur." 


THE  PARISIANS.  119 

The  two  now  threaded  their  way  through  the  crowd,  both 
silent.  At  last  Isaura,  thinking  she  ought  to  speak  first  in 
order  to  show  that  Graham  had  not  offended  her,  said, — 

"  How  lovely  Mrs.  Morley  is !  " 

"Yes;  and  I  like  the  spirit  and  ease  of  her  American 
manner.  Have  you  known  her  long,  Mademoiselle?  " 

"  No ;  we  met  her  for  the  first  time  some  weeks  ago  at  M. 
Savarin's." 

"Was  she  very  eloquent  on  the  rights  of  women?  " 

"What!  you  have  heard  her  on  that  subject?  " 

"  I  have  rarely  heard  her  on  any  other,  though  she  is  the 
best  and  perhaps  the  cleverest  friend  I  have  at  Paris ;  but  that 
may  be  my  fault,  for  I  like  to  start  it.  It  is  a  relief  to  the 
languid  small-talk  of  society  to  listen  to  any  one  thoroughly 
in  earnest  upon  turning  the  world  topsy-turvy." 

"  Do  you  suppose  poor  Mrs.  Morley  would  seek  to  do  that 
if  she  had  her  rights?  "  asked  Isaura,  with  her  musical  laugh. 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it;  but  perhaps  you  share  her  opinions." 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  her  opinions  are,  but  —  " 

"Yes?  —  but  —  " 

"  There  is  a  —  what  shall  I  call  it?  —  a  persuasion,  a  senti- 
ment, out  of  which  the  opinions  probably  spring,  that  I  do 
share." 

"Indeed?  a  persuasion,  a  sentiment,  for  instance,  that  a 
woman  should  have  votes  in  the  choice  of  legislators,  and,  I 
presume,  in  the  task  of  legislation?  " 

"  No,  that  is  not  what  I  mean.  Still,  that  is  an  opinion, 
right  or  wrong,  which  grows  out  of  the  sentiment  I  speak  of." 

"  Pray  explain  the  sentiment. " 

"  It  is  always  so  difficult  to  define  a  sentiment ;  but  does  it 
not  strike  you  that  in  proportion  as  the  tendency  of  modern 
civilization  has  been  to  raise  women  more  and  more  to  an  in- 
tellectual equality  with  men,  in  proportion  as  they  read  and 
study  and  think,  an  uneasy  sentiment,  perhaps  querulous,  per- 
haps unreasonable,  grows  up  within  their  minds  that  the  con- 
ventions of  the  world  are  against  the  complete  development  of 
the  faculties  thus  aroused  and  the  ambition  thus  animated ;  that 
they  cannot  but  rebel,  though  it  may  be  silently,  against  the  no- 


120  THE  PARISIANS. 

tions  of  the  former  age,  when  women  were  not  thus  educated, — 
notions  that  the  aim  of  the  sex  should  be  to  steal  through  life 
unremarked;  that  it  is  a  reproach  to  be  talked  of;  that  women 
are  plants  to  be  kept  in  a  hothouse  and  forbidden  the  frank 
liberty  of  growth  in  the  natural  air  and  sunshine  of  heaven? 
This,  at  least,  is  a  sentiment  which  has  sprung  up  within  my- 
self; and  I  imagine  that  it  is  the  sentiment  which  has  given 
birth  to  many  of  the  opinions  or  doctrines  that  seem  absurd, 
and  very  likely  are  so,  to  the  general  public.  I  don't  pretend 
even  to  have  considered  those  doctrines ;  I  don't  pretend  to 
say  what  may  be  the  remedies  for  the  restlessness  and  uneasi- 
ness I  feel.  I  doubt  if  on  this  earth  there  be  any  remedies ; 
all  I  know  is,  that  I  feel  restless  and  uneasy." 

Graham  gazed  on  her  countenance  as  she  spoke  with  an  as- 
tonishment not  unmingled  with  tenderness  and  compassion, — 
astonishment  at  the  contrast  between  a  vein  of  reflection  so 
hardy,  expressed  in  a  style  of  language  that  seemed  to  him  so 
masculine,  and  the  soft  velvet  dreamy  eyes,  the  gentle  tones, 
and  delicate  purity  of  hues  rendered  younger  still  by  the  blush 
that  deepened  their  bloom. 

At  this  moment  they  had  entered  the  refreshment-room; 
but  a  dense  group  being  round  the  table,  and  both  perhaps 
forgetting  the  object  for  which  Mrs.  Morley  had  introduced 
them  to  each  other,  they  had  mechancially  seated  themselves 
on  an  ottoman  in  a  recess  while  Isaura  was  yet  speaking.  It 
must  seem  as  strange  to  the  reader  as  it  did  to  Graham  that 
such  a  speech  should  have  been  spoken  by  so  young  a  girl  to 
an  acquaintance  so  new ;  but  in  truth  Isaura  was  very  little 
conscious  of  Graham's  presence.  She  had  got  on  a  subject 
that  perplexed  and  tormented  her  solitary  thoughts ;  she  was 
but  thinking  aloud. 

"I  believe,"  said  Graham,  after  a  pause,  "that  I  compre- 
hend your  sentiment  much  better  than  I  do  Mrs.  Morley's 
opinions;  but  permit  me  one  observation.  You  say  truly 
that  the  course  of  modern  civilization  has  more  or  less 
affected  the  relative  position  of  woman  cultivated  beyond 
that  level  on  which  she  was  formerly  contented  to  stand,  — 
the  nearer  perhaps  to  the  heart  of  man  because  not  lifting 


THE  PARISIANS.  121 

her  head  to  his  height, —  and  hence  a  sense  of  restlessness, 
uneasiness ;  but  do  you  suppose  that,  in  this  whirl  and  dance 
of  the  atoms  which  compose  the  rolling  ball  of  the  civilized 
world,  it  is  only  women  that  are  made  restless  and  uneasy? 
Do  you  not  see  amid  the  masses  congregated  in  the  wealthiest 
cities  of  the  world,  writhings  and  struggles  against  the  re- 
ceived order  of  things?  In  this  sentiment  of  discontent  there 
is  a  certain  truthfulness,  because  it  is  an  element  of  human 
nature,  and  how  best  to  deal  with  it  is  a  problem  yet  un- 
solved; but  in  the  opinions  and  doctrines  to  which,  among 
the  masses,  the  sentiment  gives  birth,  the  wisdom  of  the 
wisest  detects  only  the  certainty  of  a  common  ruin,  offering 
for  reconstruction  the  same  building-materials  as  the  former 
edifice, —  materials  not  likely  to  be  improved  because  they 
may  be  defaced.  Ascend  from  the  working  classes  to  all 
others  in  which  civilized  culture  prevails,  and  you  will  find 
that  same  restless  feeling, —  the  fluttering  of  untried  wings 
against  the  bars  between  wider  space  and  their  longings. 
Could  you  poll  all  the  educated  ambitious  young  men  in  Eng- 
land,—  perhaps  in  Europe, —  at  least  half  of  them,  divided 
between  a  reverence  for  the  past  and  a  curiosity  as  to  the 
future,  would  sigh,  '  I  am  born  a  century  too  late  or  a  century 
too  soon!' ' 

Isaura  listened  to  this  answer  with  a  profound  and  absorb- 
ing interest.  It  was  the  first  time  that  a  clever  young  man 
talked  thus  sympathetically  to  her,  a  clever  young  girl. 

Then,  rising,  he  said,  "  I  see  your  Madre  and  our  American 
friends  are  darting  angry  looks  at  me.  They  have  made  room 
for  us  at  the  table,  and  are  wondering  why  I  should  keep  you 
thus  from  the  good  things  of  this  little  life.  One  word  more 
ere  we  join  them, —  consult  your  own  mind,  and  consider 
whether  your  uneasiness  and  unrest  are  caused  solely  by  con- 
ventional shackles  on  your  sex.  Are  they  not  equally  com- 
mon to  the  youth  of  ours, —  common  to  all  who  seek  in  art,  in 
letters,  nay,  in  the  stormier  field  of  active  life,  to  clasp  as  a 
reality  some  image  yet  seen  but  as  a  dream?" 


122  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTEK  VIII. 

No  further  conversation  in  the  way  of  sustained  dialogue 
took  place  that  evening  between  Graham  and  Isaura. 

The  Americans  and  the  Savarins  clustered  round  Isaura 
when  they  quitted  the  refreshment-room.  The  party  was 
breaking  up.  Vane  would  have  offered  his  arm  again  to 
Isaura,  but  M.  Savarin  had  forestalled  him.  The  American 
was  despatched  by  his  wife  to  see  for  the  carriage;  and  Mrs. 
Morley  said,  with  her  wonted  sprightly  tone  of  command, — 

"Now,  Mr.  Vane,  you  have  no  option  but  to  take  care  of 
me  to  the  shawl-room." 

Madame  Savarin  and  Signora  Venosta  had  each  found  their 
cavaliers,  the  Italian  still  retaining  hold  of  the  portly  con- 
noisseur, and  the  Frenchwoman  accepting  the  safeguard  of 
the  Vicomte  de  Bre'ze'.  As  they  descended  the  stairs,  Mrs. 
Morley  asked  Graham  what  he  thought  of  the  young  lady  to 
whom  she  had  presented  him. 

"  I  think  she  is  charming, "  answered  Graham. 

"  Of  course ;  that  is  the  stereotyped  answer  to  all  such  ques- 
tions, especially  by  you  Englishmen.  In  public  or  in  pri- 
vate, England  is  the  mouthpiece  of  platitudes." 

"It  is  natural  for  an  American  to  think  so.  Every  child 
that  has  just  learned  to  speak  uses  bolder  expressions  than  its 
grandmamma;  but  I  am  rather  at  a  loss  to  know  by  what 
novelty  of  phrase  an  American  would  have  answered  your 
question." 

"  An  American  would  have  discovered  that  Isaura  Cicogna 
had  a  soul,  and  his  answer  would  have  confessed  it." 

"It  strikes  me  that  he  would  then  have  uttered  a  platitude 
more  stolid  than  mine.  Every  Christian  knows  that  the 
dullest  human  being  has  a  soul.  But,  to  speak  frankly,  I 
grant  that  my  answer  did  not  do  justice  to  the  Signorina,  nor 
to  the  impression  she  makes  on  me;  and  putting  aside  the 


THE  PARISIANS.  123 

charm  of  the  face,  there  is  a  charm  in  a  mind  that  seems  to 
have  gathered  stores  of  reflection  which  I  should  scarcely 
have  expected  to  find  in  a  young  lady  brought  up  to  be  a 
professional  singer." 

"  You  add  prejudice  to  platitude,  and  are  horribly  prosaic 
to-night;  but  here  we  are  in  the  shawl-room.  I  must  take 
another  opportunity  of  attacking  you.  Pray  dine  with  us  to- 
morrow; you  will  meet  our  Minister  and  a  few  other 
pleasant  friends." 

"  I  suppose  I  must  not  say,  '  I  shall  be  charmed, '  "  an- 
swered Vane;  "but  I  shall  be." 

"BonDieu!  that  horrid  fat  man  has  deserted  Signora  Ve- 
nosta, —  looking  for  his  own  cloak,  I  dare  say;  selfish  mon- 
ster! Go  and  hand  her  to  her  carriage;  quick,  it  is 
announced!  " 

Graham,  thus  ordered,  hastened  to  offer  his  arm  to  the  she- 
mountebank.  Somehow  she  had  acquired  dignity  in  his  eyes, 
and  he  did  not  feel  the  least  ashamed  of  being  in  contact  with 
the  scarlet  jacket. 

The  Signora  grappled  to  him  with  a  confiding  familiarity. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said  in  Italian,  as  they  passed  along  the 
spacious  hall  to  the porte  cochere, —  "I  am  afraid  that  I  did 
not  make  a  good  effect  to-night.  I  was  nervous ;  did  not  you 
perceive  it?  " 

"No,  indeed;  you  enchanted  us  all,"  replied  the  dissimu- 
lator. 

"  How  amiable  you  are  to  say  so !  You  must  think  that  I 
sought  for  a  compliment.  So  I  did;  you  gave  me  more  than 
I  deserved.  Wine  is  the  milk  of  old  men,  and  praise  of  old 
women;  but  an  old  man  may  be  killed  by  too  much  wine,  and 
an  old  woman  lives  all  the  longer  for  too  much  praise. 
Buona  notte." 

Here  she  sprang,  lithesomely  enough,  into  the  carriage, 
and  Isaura  followed,  escorted  by  M.  Savarin.  As  the  two 
men  returned  towards  the  shawl-room,  the  Frenchman  said, 
"Madame  Savarin  and  I  complain  that  you  have  not  let  us 
see  so  much  of  you  as  we  ought.  No  doubt  you  are  greatly 
sought  after ;  but  are  you  free  to  take  your  soup  with  us  the 


124  THE  PARISIANS. 

day  after  to-morrow?  You  will  meet  the  Count  von  Eudes- 
heim,  and  a  few  others  more  lively  if  less  wise." 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow  I  will  mark  with  a  white  stone. 
To  dine  with  M.  Savarin  is  an  event  to  a  man  who  covets 
distinction." 

"  Such  compliments  reconcile  an  author  to  his  trade.  You 
deserve  the  best  return  I  can  make  you.  You  will  meet  la 
belle  Isaure.  I  have  just  engaged  her  and  her  chaperon.  She 
is  a  girl  of  true  genius;  and  genius  is  like  those  objects  of 
virtu  which  belong  to  a  former  age,  and  become  every  day 
more  scarce  and  more  precious." 

Here  they  encountered  Colonel  Morley  and  his  wife  hurry- 
(ing  to  their  carriage.  The  American  stopped  Vane,  and 
whispered,  "I  am  glad,  sir,  to  hear  from  my  wife  that  you 
dine  with  us  to-morrow.  Sir,  you  will  meet  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna,  and  I  am  not  without  a  kinkle1  that  you  will  be 
enthused." 

"This  seems  like  a  fatality,"  soliloquized  Vane  as  he 
walked  through  the  deserted  streets  towards  his  lodging.  "  I 
strove  to  banish  that  haunting  face  from  my  mind.  I  had 
half  forgotten  it,  and  now  —  "  Here  his  murmur  sank  into 
silence.  He  was  deliberating  in  very  conflicted  thought 
whether  or  not  he  should  write  to  refuse  the  two  invitations 
he  had  accepted. 

"  Pooh ! "  he  said  at  last,  as  he  reached  the  door  of  his 
lodging,  "  is  my  reason  so  weak  that  it  should  be  influenced 
by  a  mere  superstition?  Surely  I  know  myself  too  well,  and 
have  tried  myself  too  long,  to  fear  that  I  should  be  untrue 
to  the  duty  and  ends  of  my  life,  even  if  I  found  my  heart  in 
danger  of  suffering." 

Certainly  the  Fates  do  seem  to  mock  our  resolves  to  keep 
our  feet  from  their  ambush,  and  our  hearts  from  their  snare! 

How  our  lives  may  be  coloured  by  that  which  seems  to  us 
the  most  trivial  accident,  the  merest  chance !  Suppose  that 
Alain  de  Rochebriant  had  been  invited  to  that  reunion  at  M. 
Louvier's,  and  Graham  Vane  had  accepted  some  other  invi- 
tation and  passed  his  evening  elsewhere,  Alain  would  prob- 

1  A  notion. 


THE  PARISIANS.  125 

ably  have  been  presented  to  Isaura  —  what  then  might  have 
happened?  The  impression  Isaura  had  already  made  upon 
the  young  Frenchman  was  not  so  deep  as  that  made  upon 
Graham;  but  then,  Alain's  resolution  to  efface  it  was  but 
commenced  that  day,  and  by  no  means  yet  confirmed.  And 
if  he  had  been  the  first  clever  young  man  to  talk  earnestly  to 
that  clever  young  girl,  who  can  guess  what  impression  he 
might  have  made  upon  her?  His  conversation  might  have 
had  less  philosophy  and  strong  sense  than  Graham's,  but 
more  of  poetic  sentiment  and  fascinating  romance. 

However,  the  history  of  events  that  do  not  come  to  pass  is 
not  in  the  chronicle  of  the  Fates. 


BOOK    III. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  next  day  the  guests  at  the  Morleys'  had  assembled 
when  Vane  entered.  His  apology  for  unpunctuality  was  cut 
short  by  the  lively  hostess.  "  Your  pardon  is  granted  with- 
out the  humiliation  of  asking  for  it ;  we  know  that  the  charac- 
teristic of  the  English  is  always  to  be  a  little  behindhand." 

She  then  proceeded  to  introduce  him  to  the  American  Min- 
ister, to  a  distinguished  American  poet,  with  a  countenance 
striking  for  mingled  sweetness  and  power,  and  one  or  two 
other  of  her  countrymen  sojourning  at  Paris ;  and  this  cere- 
mony over,  dinner  was  announced,  and  she  bade  Graham  offer 
his  arm  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna. 

"Have  you  ever  visited  the  United  States,  Mademoiselle?  " 
asked  Vane,  as  they  seated  themselves  at  the  table. 

"No." 

"It  is  a  voyage  you  are  sure  to  make  soon." 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  report  says  you  will  create  a  great  sensation  at 
the  very  commencement  of  your  career;  and  the  New  World 
is  ever  eager  to  welcome  each  celebrity  that  is  achieved  in 
the  Old, —  more  especially  that  which  belongs  to  your  en- 
chanting art." 

"True,  sir,"  said  an  American  senator,  solemnly  striking 
into  the  conversation;  "we  are  an  appreciative  people;  and  if 
that  lady  be  as  fine  a  singer  as  I  am  told,  she  might  command 
any  amount  of  dollars." 


THE  PARISIANS.  127 

Isaura  coloured,  and  turning  to  Graham,  asked  him  in  a  low 
voice  if  he  were  fond  of  music. 

"  I  ought  of  course  to  say  '  yes, '  answered  Graham,  in  the 
same  tone;  "but  I  doubt  if  that  '  yes  '  would  be  an  honest 
one.  In  some  moods,  music  —  if  a  kind  of  music  I  like  — 
affects  me  very  deeply;  in  other  moods,  not  at  all.  And  I 
cannot  bear  much  at  a  time.  A  concert  wearies  me  shame- 
fully; even  an  opera  always  seems  to  me  a  great  deal  too 
long.  But  I  ought  to  add  that  I  am  no  judge  of  music;  that 
music  was  never  admitted  into  my  education;  and,  between 
ourselves,  I  doubt  if  there  be  one  Englishman  in  five  hundred 
who  would  care  for  opera  or  concert  if  it  were  not  the  fashion 
to  say  he  did.  Does  my  frankness  revolt  you?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  sometimes  doubt,  especially  of  late,  if 
I  am  fond  of  music  myself." 

"  Signorina, —  pardon  me, —  it  is  impossible  that  you  should 
not  be.  Genius  can  never  be  untrue  to  itself,  and  must  love 
that  in  which  it  excels,  that  by  which  it  communicates  joy, 
and,"  he  added,  with  a  half -suppressed  sigh,  "attains  to 
glory." 

"Genius  is  a  divine  word,  and  not  to  be  applied  to  a 
singer,"  said  Isaura,  with  a  humility  in  which  there  was  an 
earnest  sadness. 

Graham  was  touched  and  startled;  but  before  he  could 
answer,  the  American  Minister  appealed  to  him  across  the 
table,  asking  if  he  had  quoted  accurately  a  passage  in  a 
speech  by  Graham's  distinguished  father,  in  regard  to  the 
share  which  England  ought  to  take  in  the  political  affairs 
of  Europe. 

The  conversation  now  became  general,  very  political  and 
very  serious.  Graham  was  drawn  into  it,  and  grew  animated 
and  eloquent. 

Isaura,  listened  to  him  with  admiration.  She  was  struck 
by  what  seemed  to  her  a  nobleness  of  sentiment  which  ele- 
vated his  theme  above  the  level  of  commonplace  polemics. 
She  was  pleased  to  notice,  in  the  attentive  silence  of  his  in- 
telligent listeners,  that  they  shared  the  effect  produced  on 
herself.  In  fact,  Graham  Vane  was  a  born  orator,  and  his 


128  THE  PARISIANS. 

studies  had  been  those  of  a  political  thinker.  In  common 
talk  he  was  but  the  accomplished  man  of  the  world,  easy 
and  frank  and  genial,  with  a  touch  of  good-natured  sarcasm ; 
but  when  the  subject  started  drew  him  upward  to  those 
heights  in  which  politics  become  the  science  of  humanity,  he 
seemed  a  changed  being.  His  cheek  glowed,  his  eye  bright- 
ened, his  voice  mellowed  into  richer  tones,  his  language  be- 
came unconsciously  adorned.  In  such  moments  there  might 
scarcely  be  an  audience,  even  differing  from  him  in  opinion, 
which  would  not  have  acknowledged  his  spell. 

When  the  party  adjourned  to  the  salon,  Isaura  said  softly  to 
Graham,  "I  understand  why  you  did  not  cultivate  music; 
and  I  think,  too,  that  I  can  now  understand  what  effects  the 
human  voice  can  produce  on  human  minds  without  recurring 
to  the  art  of  song." 

"Ah,"  said  Graham,  with  a  pleased  smile,  "do  not  make 
me  ashamed  of  my  former  rudeness  by  the  revenge  of  com- 
pliment; and,  above  all,  do  not  disparage  your  own  art  by 
supposing  that  any  prose  effect  of  voice  in  its  utterance  of 
mind  can  interpret  that  which  music  alone  can  express,  even 
to  listeners  so  uncultured  as  myself.  Am  I  not  told  truly 
by  musical  composers,  when  I  ask  them  to  explain  in  words 
what  they  say  in  their  music,  that  such  explanation  is  impos- 
sible, that  music  has  a  language  of  its  own  untranslatable  by 
words?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Isaura,  with  thoughtful  brow  but  brightening 
eyes,  "you  are  told  truly.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I 
was  pondering  over  that  truth." 

"But  what  recesses  of  mind,  of  heart,  of  soul,  this  untrans- 
latable language  penetrates  and  brightens  up!  How  incom- 
plete the  grand  nature  of  man  —  though  man  the  grandest  — 
would  be,  if  you  struck  out  of  his  reason  the  comprehension 
of  poetry,  music,  and  religion !  In  each  are  reached  and  are 
sounded  deeps  in  his  reason  otherwise  concealed  from  him- 
self. History,  knowledge,  science,  stop  at  the  point  in  which 
mystery  begins.  There  they  meet  with  the  world  of  shadow. 
Not  an  inch  of  that  world  can  they  penetrate  without  the  aid 
of  poetry  and  religion,  two  necessities  of  intellectual  man 


THE  PARISIAN'S.  129 

much  more  nearly  allied  than  the  votaries  of  the  practical 
and  the  positive  suppose.  To  the  aid  and  elevation  of  both 
those  necessities  comes  in  music,  and  there  has  never  existed 
a  religion  in  the  world  which  has  not  demanded  music  as  its 
ally.  If,  as  I  said  frankly,  it  is  only  in  certain  moods  of  my 
mind  that  I  enjoy  music,  it  is  only  because  in  certain  moods 
of  my  mind  I  am  capable  of  quitting  the  guidance  of  prosaic 
reason  for  the  world  of  shadow ;  that  I  am  so  susceptible  as 
at  every  hour,  were  my  nature  perfect,  I  should  be  to  the  mys- 
terious influences  of  poetry  and  religion.  Do  you  understand 
what  I  wish  to  express?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  and  clearly." 

"Then,  Signorina,  you  are  forbidden  to  undervalue  the 
gift  of  song.  You  must  feel  its  power  over  the  heart,  when 
you  enter  the  opera-house;  over  the  soul,  when  you  kneel  in 
a  cathedral." 

"Oh,"  cried  Isaura,  with  enthusiasm,  a  rich  glow  mantling 
over  her  lovely  face,  "  how  I  thank  you !  Is  it  you  who  say 
you  do  not  love  music?  How  much  better  you  understand  it 
than  I  did  till  this  moment !  " 

Here  Mrs.  Morley,  joined  by  the  American  poet,  came  to 
the  corner  in  which  the  Englishman  and  the  singer  had  niched 
themselves.  The  poet  began  to  talk,  the  other  guests  gath- 
ered round,  and  every  one  listened  reverentially  till  the  party 
broke  up.  Colonel  Morley  handed  Isaura  to  her  carriage ;  the 
she-mountebank  again  fell  to  the  lot  of  Graham. 

"Signer,"  said  she,  as  he  respectfully  placed  her  shawl 
round  her  scarlet-and-gilt  jacket,  "are  we  so  far  from  Paris 
that  you  cannot  spare  the  time  to  call?  My  child  does  not 
sing  in  public,  but  at  home  you  can  hear  her.  It  is  not  every 
woman's  voice  that  is  sweetest  at  home." 

Graham  bowed,  a,nd  said  he  would  call  on  the  morrow. 

Isaura  mused  in  silent  delight  over  the  words  which  had 
so  extolled  the  art  of  the  singer.  Alas,  poor  child!  she  could 
not  guess  that  in  those  words,  reconciling  her  to  the  profes- 
sion of  the  stage,  the  speaker  was  pleading  against  his  own 
heart. 

There  was  in  Graham's  nature,  as  I  think  it  commonly  is 

VOL.  I.  — 9 


130  THE  PARISIANS. 

in  that  of  most  true  orators,  a  wonderful  degree  of  intel- 
lectual conscience  which  impelled  him  to  acknowledge  the 
benignant  influences  of  song,  and  to  set  before  the  young 
singer  the  noblest  incentives  to  the  profession  to  which  he 
deemed  her  assuredly  destined;  but  in  so  doing  he  must  have 
felt  that  he  was  widening  the  gulf  between  her  life  and  his 
own.-  Perhaps  he  wished  to  widen  it  in  proportion  as  he 
dreaded  to  listen  to  any  voice  in  his  heart  which  asked  if 
the  gulf  might  not  be  overleapt. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

ON  the  morrow  Graham  called  at  the  villa  at  A .  The 

two  ladies  received  him  in  Isaura's  chosen  sitting-room. 

Somehow  or  other,  conversation  at  first  languished.  Gra- 
ham was  reserved  and  distant,  Isaura  shy  and  embarrassed. 

The  Venosta  had  the  frais  of  making  talk  to  herself.  Prob- 
ably at  another  time  Graham  would  have  been  amused  and  in- 
terested in  the  observation  of  a  character  new  to  him,  and 
thoroughly  southern, —  lovable  not  more  from  its  naive  sim- 
plicity of  kindliness  than  from  various  little  foibles  and  vani- 
ties, all  of  which  were  harmless,  and  some  of  them  endearing 
as  those  of  a  child  whom  it  is  easy  to  make  happy,  and  whom 
it  seems  so  cruel  to  pain;  and  with  all  the  Venosta's  devia- 
tions from  the  polished  and  tranquil  good  taste  of  the  beau 
monde,  she  had  that  indescribable  grace  which  rarely  deserts 
a  Florentine,  so  that  you  might  call  her  odd  but  not  vulgar ; 
while,  though  uneducated,  except  in  the  way  of  her  old  pro- 
fession, and  never  having  troubled  herself  to  read  anything 
but  a  libretto  and  the  pious  books  commended  to  her  by  her 
confessor,  the  artless  babble  of  her  talk  every  now  and  then 
flashed  out  with  a  quaint  humour,  lighting  up  terse  fragments 
of  the  old  Italian  wisdom  which  had  mysteriously  embedded 
themselves  in  the  groundwork  of  her  mind. 


THE  PARISIANS.  131 

But  Graham  was  not  at  this  time  disposed  to  judge  the  poor 
Venosta  kindly  or  fairly.  Isaura  had  taken  high  rank  in  his 
thoughts.  He  felt  an  impatient  resentment  mingled  with 
anxiety  and  compassionate  tenderness  at  a  companionship 
which  seemed  to  him  derogatory  to  the  position  he  would 
have  assigned  to  a  creature  so  gifted,  and  unsafe  as  a  guide 
amidst  the  perils  and  trials  to  which  the  youth,  the  beauty, 
and  the  destined  profession  of  Isaura  were  exposed.  Like 
most  Englishmen  —  especially  Englishmen  wise  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  life  —  he  held  in  fastidious  regard  the  proprieties 
and  conventions  by  which  the  dignity  of  woman  is  fenced 
round ;  and  of  those  proprieties  and  conventions  the  Venosta 
naturally  appeared  to  him  a  very  unsatisfactory  guardian  and 
representative. 

Happily  unconscious  of  these  hostile  prepossessions,  the 
elder  Signora  chatted  on  very  gayly  to  the  visitor.  She  was 
in  excellent  spirits ;  people  had  been  very  civil  to  her  both  at 
Colonel  Morley's  and  M.  Louvier's.  The  American  Minister 
had  praised  the  scarlet  jacket.  She  was  convinced  she  had 
made  a  sensation  two  nights  running.  When  the  amour  propre 
is  pleased,  the  tongue  is  freed. 

The  Venosta  ran  on  in  praise  of  Paris  and  the  Parisians;  of 
Louvierand  his  soiree  and  the  pistachio  ice ;  of  the  Americans, 
and  a  certain  creme  de  maraschino  which  she  hoped  the 
Signer  Inglese  had  not  failed  to  taste, —  the  creme  de  mara- 
schino led  her  thoughts  back  to  Italy.  Then  she  grew 
mournful.  How  she  missed  the  native  beau  del !  Paris  was 
pleasant,  but  how  absurd  to  call  it  "  le  Paradis  des  Femmes, " 
—  as  if  les  Femmes  could  find  Paradise  in  a  brouillard  ! 

"But,"  she  exclaimed,  with  vivacity  of  voice  and  gesticula- 
tion, "  the  Signor  does  not  come  to  hear  the  parrot  talk ;  he 
is  engaged  to  come  that  he  may  hear  the  nightingale  sing.  A 
drop  of  honey  attracts  the  fly  more  than  a  bottle  of  vinegar." 

Graham  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  adage.  "I  submit," 
said  he,  "to  your  comparison  as  regards  myself;  but  cer- 
tainly anything  less  like  a  bottle  of  vinegar  than  your 
amiable  conversation  I  cannot  well  conceive.  However,  the 
metaphor  apart,  I  scarcely  know  how  I  dare  ask  Mademoiselle 
to  sing  after  the  confession  I  made  to  her  last  night." 


132  THE   PARISIANS. 

"  What  confession?  "  asked  the  Venosta. 

"  That  I  know  nothing  of  music,  and  doubt  if  I  can  honestly 
say  that  I  am  fond  of  it." 

"  Not  fond  of  music !  Impossible !  You  slander  yourself. 
He  who  loves  not  music  would  have  a  dull  time  of  it  in 
heaven.  But  you  are  English,  and  perhaps  have  only  heard 
the  music  of  your  own  country.  Bad,  very  bad  —  a  heretic's 
music!  Now  listen." 

Seating  herself  at  the  piano,  she  began  an  air  from  the 
"Lucia,"  crying  out  to  Isaura  to  come  and  sing  to  her 
accom  paniment. 

"Do  you  really  wish  it?"  asked  Isaura  of  Graham,  fixing 
on  him  questioning,  timid  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  say  how  much  I  wish  to  hear  you. " 

Isaura  moved  to  the  instrument,  and  Graham  stood  behind 
her.  Perhaps  he  felt  that  he  should  judge  more  impartially 
of  her  voice  if  not  subjected  to  the  charm  of  her  face. 

But  the  first  note  of  the  voice  held  him  spell-bound.  In 
itself  the  organ  was  of  the  rarest  order,  mellow  and  rich,  but 
so  soft  that  its  power  was  lost  in  its  sweetness,  and  so  ex- 
quisitely fresh  in  every  note. 

But  the  singer's  charm  was  less  in  voice  than  in  feeling; 
she  conveyed  to  the  listener  so  much  more  than  was  said  by 
the  words,  or  even  implied  by  the  music.  Her  song  in  this 
caught  the  art  of  the  painter  who  impresses  the  mind  with 
the  consciousness  of  a  something  which  the  eye  cannot  detect 
on  the  canvas. 

She  seemed  to  breathe  out  from  the  depths  of  her  heart  the 
intense  pathos  of  the  original  romance,  so  far  exceeding  that 
of  the  opera, —  the  human  tenderness,  the  mystic  terror  of  a 
tragic  love-tale  more  solemn  in  its  sweetness  than  that  of 
Verona. 

When  her  voice  died  away  no  applause  came, —  not  even  a 
murmur.  Isaura  bashfully  turned  round  to  steal  a  glance  at 
her  silent  listener,  and  beheld  moistened  eyes  and  quivering 
lips.  At  that  moment  she  was  reconciled  to  her  art.  Graham 
rose  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"Do  you  doubt  now  if  you  are  fond  of  music?"  cried  the 
Venosta. 


THE  PARISIANS.  133 

"This  is  more  than  music,"  answered  Graham,  still  with 
averted  face.  Then,  after  a  short  pause,  he  approached 
Isaura,  and  said,  with  a  melancholy  half -smile,  — 

"  I  do  not  think,  Mademoiselle,  that  I  could  dare  to  hear 
you  often ;  it  would  take  me  too  far  from  the  hard  real  world : 
and  he  who  would  not  be  left  behindhand  on  the  road  that 
he  must  journey  cannot  indulge  frequent  excursions  into 
fairyland. " 

"Yet,"  said  Isaura,  in  a  tone  yet  sadder,  "I  was  told  in  my 
childhood,  by  one  whose  genius  gives  authority  to  her  words, 
that  beside  the  real  world  lies  the  ideal.  The  real  world 
then  seemed  rough  to  me.  '  Escape,'  said  my  counsellor,  '  is 
granted  from  that  stony  thoroughfare  into  the  fields  beyond 
its  formal  hedgerows.  The  ideal  world  has  its  sorrows,  but 
it  never  admits  despair. '  That  counsel  then,  methought,  de- 
cided my  choice  of  life.  I  know  not  now  if  it  has  done  so." 

"Fate,"  answered  Graham,  slowly  and  thoughtfully, — 
"  Fate,  which  is  not  the  ruler  but  the  servant  of  Providence, 
decides  our  choice  of  life,  and  rarely  from  outward  circum- 
stances. Usually  the  motive  power  is  within.  We  apply 
the  word  "genius"  to  the  minds  of  the  gifted  few;  but  in  all 
of  us  there  is  a  genius  that  is  inborn,  a  pervading  something 
which  distinguishes  our  very  identity,  and  dictates  to  the  con- 
science that  which  we  are  best  fitted  to  do  and  to  be.  In  so 
dictating  it  compels  our  choice  of  life;  or  if  we  resist  the 
dictate,  we  find  at  the  close  that  we  have  gone  astray.  My 
choice  of  life  thus  compelled  is  on  the  stony  thoroughfares, 
yours  in  the  green  fields." 

As  he  thus  said,  his  face  became  clouded  and  mournful. 

The  Venosta,  quickly  tired  of  a  conversation  in  which  she 
had  no  part,  and  having  various  little  household  matters  to 
attend  to,  had  during  this  dialogue  slipped  unobserved  from 
the  room;  yet  neither  Isaura  nor  Graham  felt  the  sudden 
consciousness  that  they  were  alone  which  belongs  to  lovers. 

"Why,"  asked  Isaura,  with  that  magic  smile  reflected  in 
countless  dimples  which,  even  when  her  words  were  those 
of  a  man's  reasoning,  made  them  seem  gentle  with  a  woman's 
sentiment, —  "why  must  your  road  through  the  world  be  so 


134  THE   PARISIANS. 

exclusively  the  stony  one?  It  is  not  from  necessity,  it  can- 
not be  from  taste;  and  whatever  definition  you  give  to 
genius,  surely  it  is  not  your  own  inborn  genius  that  dictates 
to  you  a  constant  exclusive  adherence  to  the  commonplace 
of  life." 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  do  not  misrepresent  me.  I  did  not 
say  that  I  could  not  sometimes  quit  the  real  world  for  fairy- 
land, —  I  said  that  I  could  not  do  so  often.  My  vocation  is 
not  that  of  a  poet  or  artist." 

"It  is  that  of  an  orator,  I  know,"  said  Isaura,  kindling; 
"  so  they  tell  me,  and  I  believe  them.  But  is  not  the  orator 
somewhat  akin  to  the  poet?  Is  not  oratory  an  art?  " 

"Let  us  dismiss  the  word  orator;  as  applied  to  English 
public  life,  it  is  a  very  deceptive  expression.  The  English- 
man who  wishes  to  influence  his  countrymen  by  force  of 
words  spoken  must  mix  with  them  in  their  beaten  thorough- 
fares ;  must  make  himself  master  of  their  practical  views  and 
interests ;  must  be  conversant  with  their  prosaic  occupations 
and  business;  must  understand  how  to  adjust  their  loftiest 
aspirations  to  their  material  welfare ;  must  avoid  as  the  fault 
most  dangerous  to  himself  and  to  others  that  kind  of  elo- 
quence which  is  called  oratory  in  France,  and  which  has 
helped  to  make  the  French  the  worst  politicians  in  Europe. 
Alas !  Mademoiselle,  I  fear  that  an  English  statesman  would 
appear  to  you  a  very  dull  orator." 

"I  see  that  I  spoke  foolishly, —  yes,  you  show  me  that  the 
world  of  the  statesman  lies  apart  from  that  of  the  artist. 
Yet  —  " 

"Yet  what?" 

"May  not  the  ambition  of  both  be  the  same?  " 

"How  so?" 

"  To  refine  the  rude,  to  exalt  the  mean ;  to  identify  their 
own  fame  with  some  new  beauty,  some  new  glory,  added  to 
the  treasure-house  of  all." 

Graham  bowed  his  head  reverently,  and  then  raised  it  with 
the  flush  of  enthusiasm  on  his  cheek  and  brow. 

"Oh,  Mademoiselle,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  a  sure  guide 
and  what  a  noble  inspirer  to  a  true  Englishman's  ambition 


THE   PARISIANS.  135 

nature  has   fitted  you  to  be,  were  it  not  — "     He  paused 
abruptly. 

This  outburst  took  Isaura  utterly  by  surprise.  She  had 
been  accustomed  to  the  language  of  compliment  till  it  had 
begun  to  pall,  but  a  compliment  of  this  kind  was  the  first 
that  had  ever  reached  her  ear.  She  had  no  words  in  answer 
to  it;  involuntarily  she  placed  her  hand  on  her  heart  as  if  to 
still  its  beatings.  But  the  unfinished  exclamation,  "  Were  it 
not,"  troubled  her  more  than  the  preceding  words  had  flat- 
tered, and  mechanically  she  murmured,  "Were  it  not  — 
what?" 

"Oh,"  answered  Graham,  affecting  a  tone  of  gayety,  "I 
felt  too  ashamed  of  my  selfishness  as  man  to  finish  my 
sentence." 

"Do  so,  or  I  shall  fancy  you  refrained  lest  you  might 
wound  me  as  woman." 

"Not  so;  on  the  contrary,  had  I  gone  on  it  would  have 
been  to  say  that  a  woman  of  your  genius,  and  more  especially 
of  such  mastery  in  the  most  popular  and  fascinating  of  all 
arts,  could  not  be  contented  if  she  inspired  nobler  thoughts 
in  a  single  breast, —  she  must  belong  to  the  public,  or  rather 
the  public  must  belong  to  her;  it  is  but  a  corner  of  her  heart 
that  an  individual  can  occupy,  and  even  that  individual  must 
merge  his  existence  in  hers,  must  be  contented  to  reflect  a 
ray  of  the  light  she  sheds  on  admiring  thousands.  Who 
could  dare  to  say  to  you,  '  Renounce  your  career ;  confine  your 
genius,  your  art,  to  the  petty  circle  of  home  '  ?  To  an  actress, 
a  singer,  with  whose  fame  the  world  rings,  home  would  be  a 
prison.  Pardon  me,  pardon  —  " 

Isaura  had  turned  away  her  face  to  hide  tears  that  would 
force  their  way;  but  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a 
childlike  frankness,  and  said  softly,  "I  am  not  offended." 
Graham  did  not  trust  himself  to  continue  the  same  strain  of 
conversation.  Breaking  into  a  new  subject,  he  said,  after  a 
constrained  pause,  "  Will  you  think  it  very  impertinent  in  so 
new  an  acquaintance,  if  I  ask  how  it  is  that  you,  an  Italian, 
know  our  language  as  a  native;  and  is  it  by  Italian  teachers 
that  you  have  been  trained  to  think  and  to  feel?" 


136  THE   PARISIANS. 

"  Mr.  Selby,  my  second  father,  was  an  Englishman,  and  did 
not  speak  any  other  language  with  comfort  to  himself.  He 
was  very  fond  of  me;  and  had  he  been  really  my  father  I 
could  not  have  loved  him  more.  We  were  constant  compan- 
ions till  —  till  I  lost  him." 

"  And  no  mother  left  to  console  you ! "  Isaura  shook  her 
head  mournfully,  and  the  Venosta  here  re-entered. 

Graham  felt  conscious  that  he  had  already  stayed  too  long, 
and  took  leave. 

They  knew  that  they  were  to  meet  that  evening  at  the 
Savarins'. 

To  Graham  that  thought  was  not  one  of  unmixed  pleasure ; 
the  more  he  knew  of  Isaura,  the  more  he  felt  self-reproach 
that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  know  her  at  all. 

But  after  he  had  left,  Isaura  sang  low  to  herself  the  song 
which  had  so  affected  her  listener;  then  she  fell  into  ab- 
stracted revery,  but  she  felt  a  strange  and  new  sort  of  happi- 
ness. In  dressing  for  M.  Savarin's  dinner,  and  twining  the 
classic  ivy  wreath  in  her  dark  locks,  her  Italian  servant  ex- 
claimed, "How  beautiful  the  Signorina  looks  to-night!  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

M.  SAVARIK  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  that  galaxy 
of  literary  men  which  shed  lustre  on  the  reign  of  Louis 
Philippe. 

His  was  an  intellect  peculiarly  French  in  its  lightness  and 
grace.  Neither  England  nor  Germany  nor  America  has  pro- 
duced any  resemblance  to  it.  Ireland  has,  in  Thomas  Moore ; 
but  then  in  Irish  genius  there  is  so  much  that  is  French. 

M.  Savarin  was  free  from  the  ostentatious  extravagance 
which  had  come  into  vogue  with  the  Empire.  His  house  and 
establishment  were  modestly  maintained  within  the  limit  of 


THE   PARISIANS.  137 

an  income  chiefly,  perhaps  entirely,  derived  from  literary 
profits. 

Though  he  gave  frequent  dinners,  it  was  but  to  few  at  a 
time,  and  without  show  or  pretence.  Yet  the  dinners,  though 
simple,  were  perfect  of  their  kind;  and  the  host  so  contrived 
to  infuse  his  own  playful  gayety  into  the  temper  of  his 
guests,  that  the  feasts  at  his  house  were  considered  the 
pleasantest  at  Paris.  On  this  occasion  the  party  extended  to 
ten,  the  largest  number  his  table  admitted. 

All  the  French  guests  belonged  to  the  Liberal  party,  though 
in  changing  tints  of  the  tricolor.  Place  aux  dames  !  first  to 
be  named  were  the  Countess  de  Craon  and  Madame  Vertot, 
both  without  husbands.  The  Countess  had  buried  the  Count, 
Madame  Vertot  had  separated  from  Monsieur.  The  Coun- 
tess was  very  handsome,  but  she  was  sixty;  Madame  Vertot 
was  twenty  years  younger,  but  she  was  very  plain.  She  had 
quarrelled  with  the  distinguished  author  for  whose  sake  she 
had  separated  from  Monsieur,  and  no  man  had  since  presumed 
to  think  that  he  could  console  a  lady  so  plain  for  the  loss  of 
an  author  so  distinguished. 

Both  these  ladies  were  very  clever.  The  Countess  had  writ- 
ten lyrical  poems  entitled  "Cries  of  Liberty,"  and  a  drama  of 
which  Danton  was  the  hero,  and  the  moral  too  revolutionary 
for  admission  to  the  stage;  but  at  heart  the  Countess  was  not 
at  all  a  revolutionist, —  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  do  or 
desire  anything  that  could  bring  a  washerwoman  an  inch 
nearer  to  a  countess.  She  was  one  of  those  persons  who  play 
with  fire  in  order  to  appear  enlightened. 

Madame  Vertot  was  of  severer  mould.  She  had  knelt  at 
the  feet  of  M.  Thiers,  and  went  into  the  historico-political 
line.  She  had  written  a  remarkable  book  upon  the  modern 
Carthage  (meaning  England),  and  more  recently  a  work  that 
had  excited  much  attention  upon  the  Balance  of  Power,  in 
which  she  proved  it  to  be  the  interest  of  civilization  and  the 
necessity  of  Europe  that  Belgium  should  be  added  to  France, 
and  Prussia  circumscribed  to  the  bounds  of  its  original 
margraviate.  She  showed  how  easily  these  two  objects 
could  have  been  effected  by  a  constitutional  monarch  instead 


138  THE  PARISIANS. 

of  an  egotistical  Emperor.  Madame  Vertot  was  a  decided 
Orleanist. 

Both  these  ladies  condescended  to  put  aside  authorship  in 
general  society.  Next  amongst  our  guests  let  me  place  the 
Count  de  Passy  and  Madame  son  espouse.  The  Count  was 
seventy-one,  and,  it  is  needless  to  add,  a  type  of  Frenchman 
rapidly  vanishing,  and  not  likely  to  find  itself  renewed.  How 
shall  I  describe  him  so  as  to  make  my  English  reader  under- 
stand? Let  me  try  by  analogy.  Suppose  a  man  of  great  birth 
and  fortune,  who  in  his  youth  had  been  an  enthusiastic  friend 
of  Lord  Byron  and  a  jocund  companion  of  George  IV. ;  who 
had  in  him  an  immense  degree  of  lofty  romantic  sentiment 
with  an  equal  degree  of  well-bred  worldly  cynicism,  but  who, 
on  account  of  that  admixture,  which  is  so  rare,  kept  a  high 
rank  in  either  of  the  two  societies  into  which,  speaking 
broadly,  civilized  life  divides  itself, —  the  romantic  and  the 
cynical.  The  Count  de  Passy  had  been  the  most  ardent 
among  the  young  disciples  of  Chateaubriand,  the  most  bril- 
liant among  the  young  courtiers  of  Charles  X.  Need  I  add 
that  he  had  been  a  terrible  lady-killer? 

But  in  spite  of  his  admiration  of  Chateaubriand  and  his 
allegiance  to  Charles  X.,  the  Count  had  been  always  true  to 
those  caprices  of  the  French  noblesse  from  which  he  de- 
scended,—  caprices  which  destroyed  them  in  the  old  Re  vo- 
lution; caprices  belonging  to  the  splendid  ignorance  of  their 
nation  in  general  and  their  order  in  particular.  Speaking 
without  regard  to  partial  exceptions,  the  French  gentilhomme 
is  essentially  a  Parisian;  a  Parisian  is  essentially  impres- 
sionable to  the  impulse  or  fashion  of  the  moment.  Is  it  a  la 
mode  for  the  moment  to  be  Liberal  or  anti-Liberal?  Paris- 
ians embrace  and  kiss  each  other,  and  swear  through  life  and 
death  to  adhere  forever  to  the  mode  of  the  moment.  The 
Three  Pays  were  the  mode  of  the  moment, — the  Count  de 
Passy  became  an  enthusiastic  Orleanist.  Louis  Philippe  was 
very  gracious  to  him.  He  was  decorated;  he  was  named 
prefet  of  his  department;  he  was  created  senator;  he  was 
about  to  be  sent  Minister  to  a  German  Court  when  Louis 
Philippe  fell.  The  Republic  was  proclaimed.  The  Count 


THE  PARISIANS.  139 

caught  the  popular  contagion,  and  after  exchanging  tears 
and  kisses  with  patriots  whom  a  week  before  he  had  called 
canaille)  he  swore  eternal  fidelity  to  the  Republic.  The  fash- 
ion of  the  moment  suddenly  became  Napoleonic,  and  with 
the  coup  d'etat  the  Republic  was  metamorphosed  into  an  Em- 
pire. The  Count  wept  on  the  bosoms  of  all  the  Vieilles 
Moustaches  he  could  find,  and  rejoiced  that  the  sun  of  Aus- 
terlitz  had  re-arisen.  But  after  the  affair  of  Mexico  the  sun 
of  Austerlitz  waxed  very  sickly.  Imperialism  was  fast  going 
out  of  fashion.  The  Count  transferred  his  affection  to  Jules 
Favre,  and  joined  the  ranks  of  the  advanced  Liberals.  Dur- 
ing all  these  political  changes,  the  Count  had  remained  very 
much  the  same  man  in  private  life ;  agreeable,  good-natured, 
witty,  and,  above  all,  a  devotee  of  the  fair  sex.  When  he 
had  reached  the  age  of  sixty-eight  he  was  still  fort  l>el  homme, 
unmarried,  with  a  grand  presence  and  charming  manner.  At 
that  age  he  said,  "Je  me  range,"  and  married  a  young  lady  of 
eighteen.  She  adored  her  husband,  and  was  wildly  jealous 
of  him;  while  the  Count  did  not  seem  at  all  jealous  of  her, 
and  •  submitted  to  her  adoration  with  a  gentle  shrug  of  the 
shoulders. 

The  three  other  guests  who,  with  Graham  and  the  two 
Italian  ladies,  made  up  the  complement  of  ten,  were  the  Ger- 
man Count  von  Rudesheim,  a  celebrated  French  physician 
named  Bacourt,  and  a  young  author  whom  Savarin  had  ad- 
mitted into  his  clique  and  declared  to  be  of  rare  promise. 
This  author,  whose  real  name  was  Gustave  Rameau,  but  who, 
to  prove,  I  suppose,  the  sincerity  of  that  scorn  for  ancestry 
which  he  professed,  published  his  verses  under  the  patrician 
designation  of  Alphonse  de  Valcour,  was  about  twenty-four, 
and  might  have  passed  at  the  first  glance  for  younger;  but, 
looking  at  him  closely,  the  signs  of  old  age  were  already 
stamped  on  his  visage. 

He  was  undersized,  and  of  a  feeble  slender  frame.  In  the 
eyes  of  women  and  artists  the  defects  of  his  frame  were  re- 
deemed by  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  the  face.  His  black 
hair,  carefully  parted  in  the  centre,  and  worn  long  and  flow- 
ing, contrasted  the  whiteness  of  a  high  though  narrow  fore- 


140  THE  PARISIANS. 

head,  and  the  delicate  pallor  of  his  cheeks.  His  features 
were  very  regular,  his  eyes  singularly  bright ;  but  the  expres- 
sion of  the  face  spoke  of  fatigue  and  exhaustion;  the  silky 
locks  were  already  thin,  and  interspersed  with  threads  of 
silver;  the  bright  eyes  shone  out  from  sunken  orbits;  the 
lines  round  the  mouth  were  marked  as  they  are  in  the  middle 
age  of  one  who  has  lived  too  fast. 

It  was  a  countenance  that  might  have  excited  a  compas- 
sionate and  tender  interest  but  for  something  arrogant  and 
supercilious  in  the  expression, —  something  that  demanded  not 
tender  pity  but  enthusiastic  admiration.  Yet  that  expres- 
sion was  displeasing  rather  to  men  than  to  women;  and  one 
could  well  conceive  that,  among  the  latter,  the  enthusiastic 
admiration  it  challenged  would  be  largely  conceded. 

The  conversation  at  dinner  was  in  complete  contrast  to  that 
at  the  Americans'  the  day  before.  There  the  talk,  though 
animated,  had  been  chiefly  earnest  and  serious ;  here  it  was 
all  touch  and  go,  sally  and  repartee.  The  subjects  were  the 
light  on  dits  and  lively  anecdotes  of  the  day,  not  free  from 
literature  and  politics,  but  both  treated  as  matters  of  per- 
siflage, hovered  round  with  a  jest  and  quitted  with  an  epi- 
gram. The  two  French  lady  authors,  the  Count  de  Passy, 
the  physician,  and  the  host  far  outspoke  all  the  other  guests. 
Now  and  then,  however,  the  German  Count  struck  in  with  an 
ironical  remark  condensing  a  great  deal  of  grave  wisdom,  and 
the  young  author  with  ruder  and  more  biting  sarcasm.  If  the 
sarcasm  told,  he  showed  his  triumph  by  a  low-pitched  laugh; 
if  it  failed,  he  evinced  his  displeasure  by  a  contemptuous 
sneer  or  a  grim  scowl. 

Isaura  and  Graham  were  not  seated  near  each  other,  and 
were  for  the  most  part  contented  to  be  listeners. 

On  adjourning  to  the  salon  after  dinner,  Graham,  however, 
was  approaching  the  chair  in  which  Isaura  had  placed  herself, 
when  the  young  author,  forestalling  him,  dropped  into  the 
seat  next  to  her,  and  began  a  conversation  in  a  voice  so  low 
that  it  might  have  passed  for  a  whisper.  The  Englishman 
drew  back  and  observed  them.  He  soon  perceived,  with  a 
pang  of  jealousy  not  unmingled  with  scorn,  that  the  author's 


THE  PARISIANS.  141 

talk  appeared  to  interest  Isaura.  She  listened  with  evident 
attention ;  and  when  she  spoke  in  return,  though  Graham  did 
not  hear  her  words,  he  could  observe  on  her  expressive  coun- 
tenance an  increased  gentleness  of  aspect. 

"I  hope,"  said  the  physician,  joining  Graham,  as  most  of 
the  other  guests  gathered  round  Savarin,  who  was  in  his  live- 
liest vein  of  anecdote  and  wit,  — "I  hope  that  the  fair  Italian 
will  not  allow  that  ink-bottle  imp  to  persuade  her  that  she 
has  fallen  in  love  with  him." 

"Do  young  ladies  generally  find  him  so  seductive?"  asked 
Graham,  with  a  forced  smile. 

"Probably  enough.  He  has  the  reputation  of  being  very 
clever  and  very  wicked,  and  that  is  a  sort  of  character  which 
has  the  serpent's  fascination  for  the  daughters  of  Eve." 

"Is  the  reputation  merited?  " 

"As  to  the  cleverness,  I  am  not  a  fair  judge.  I  dislike 
that  sort  of  writing  which  is  neither  manlike  nor  womanlike, 
and  in  which  young  Rameau  excels.  He  has  the  knack  of 
finding  very  exaggerated  phrases  by  which  to  express  com- 
monplace thoughts.  He  writes  verses  about  love  in  words  so 
stormy  that  you  might  fancy  that  Jove  was  descending  upon 
Semele ;  but  when  you  examine  his  words,  as  a  sober  patholo- 
gist like  myself  is  disposed  to  do,  your  fear  for  the  peace  of 
households  vanishes,  —  they  are  Vox  et  prceterea  nihil ;  no 
man  really  in  love  would  use  them.  He  writes  prose  about 
the  wrongs  of  humanity.  You  feel  for  humanity;  you  say, 
'  Grant  the  wrongs,  now  for  the  remedy, '  —  and  you  find  noth- 
ing but  balderdash.  Still  I  am  bound  to  say  that  both  in  verse 
and  prose  Gustave  Rameau  is  in  unison  with  a  corrupt  taste 
of  the  day,  and  therefore  he  is  coming  into  vogue.  So  much 
as  to  his  writings;  as  to  his  wickedness,  you  have  only  to 
look  at  him  to  feel  sure  that  he  is  not  a  hundredth  part  so 
wicked  as  he  wishes  to  seem.  In  a  word,  then,  M.  Gustave 
Rameau  is  a  type  of  that  somewhat  numerous  class  among  the 
youth  of  Paris,  which  I  call  '  the  lost  Tribe  of  Absinthe.' 
There  is  a  set  of  men  who  begin  to  live  full  gallop  while  they 
are  still  boys.  As  a  general  rule,  they  are  originally  of  the 
sickly  frames  which  can  scarcely  even  trot,  much  less  gallop, 


142  THE   PARISIANS. 

without  the  spur  of  stimulants,  and  no  stimulant  so  fasci- 
nates their  peculiar  nervous  system  as  absinthe.  The  num- 
ber of  patients  in  this  set  who  at  the  age  of  thirty  are  more 
worn  out  than  septuagenarians  increases  so  rapidly  as  to 
make  one  dread  to  think  what  will  be  the  next  race  of 
Frenchmen.  To  the  predilection  for  absinthe  young  Rameau 
and  the  writers  of  his  set  add  the  imitation  of  Heine,  after, 
indeed,  the  manner  of  caricaturists,  who  effect  a  likeness 
striking  in  proportion  as  it  is  ugly.  It  is  not  easy  to  imitate 
the  pathos  and  the  wit  of  Heine ;  but  it  is  easy  to  imitate  his 
defiance  of  the  Deity,  his  mockery  of  right  and  wrong,  his 
relentless  war  on  that  heroic  standard  of  thought  and  action 
which  the  writers  who  exalt  their  nation  intuitively  preserve. 
Rameau  cannot  be  a  Heine,  but  he  can  be  to  Heine  what  a 
misshapen  snarling  dwarf  is  to  a  mangled  blaspheming  Titan. 
Yet  he  interests  the  women  in  general,  and  he  evidently  in- 
terests the  fair  Signorina  in  especial." 

Just  as  Bacourt  finished  that  last  sentence,  Isaura  lifted 
the  head  which  had  hitherto  bent  in  an  earnest  listening  atti- 
tude that  seemed  to  justify  the  Doctor's  remarks,  and  looked 
round.  Her  eyes  met  Graham's  with  the  fearless  candour 
which  made  half  the  charm  of  their  bright  yet  soft  intelli- 
gence; but  she  dropped  them  suddenly  with  a  half -start  and 
a  change  of  colour,  for  the  expression  of  Graham's  face  was 
unlike  that  which  she  had  hitherto  seen  on  it,  —  it  was  hard, 
stern,  and  somewhat  disdainful.  A  minute  or  so  afterwards 
she  rose,  and  in  passing  across  the  room  towards  the  group 
round  the  host,  paused  at  a  table  covered  with  books  and 
prints  near  to  which  Graham  was  standing  alone.  The  Doctor 
had  departed  in  company  with  the  German  Count. 
Isaura  took  up  one  of  the  prints. 

"  Ah !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  Sorrento,  my  Sorrento.  Have  you 
ever  visited  Sorrento,  Mr.  Vane?" 

Her  question  and  her  movement  were  evidently  in  conci- 
liation. Was  the  conciliation  prompted  by  coquetry,  or  by 
a  sentiment  more  innocent  and  artless? 

Graham  doubted,  and  replied  coldly,  as  he  bent  over  the 
print,  — 


THE  PARISIANS.  143 

"  I  once  stayed  there  a  few  days,  but  my  recollection  of  it 
is  not  sufficiently  lively  to  enable  me  to  recognize  its  features 
in  this  design." 

"That  is  the  house,  at  least  so  they  say,  of  Tasso's  father; 
of  course  you  visited  that?  " 

"Yes,  it  was  a  hotel  in  my  time;  I  lodged  there." 

"  And  I  too.  There  I  first  read  '  The  Gerusalemme. '  " 
The  last  words  were  said  in  Italian,  with  a  low  measured 
tone,  inwardly  and  dreamily. 

A  somewhat  sharp  and  incisive  voice  speaking  in  French 
here  struck  in  and  prevented  Graham's  rejoinder :  "  Quel  joli 
dessin  !  What  is  it,  Mademoiselle?" 

Graham  recoiled;  the  speaker  was  Gustave  Rameau,  who 
had,  unobserved,  first  watched  Isaura,  then  rejoined  her 
side. 

"  A  view  of  Sorrento,  Monsieur,  but  it  does  not  do  justice 
to  the  place.  I  was  pointing  out  the  house  which  belonged 
to  Tasso's  father." 

"Tasso!     Hein  !  and  which  is  the  fair  Eleonora's?  " 

"  Monsieur, "  answered  Isaura,  rather  startled  at  that  ques- 
tion, from  a  professed  homme  de  lettres,  "  Eleonora  did  not 
live  at  Sorrento." 

"Tant  pis  pour  Sorrente,"  said  the  homme  de  lettres,  care- 
lessly. "No  one  would  care  for  Tasso  if  it  were  not  for 
Eleonora." 

"I  should  rather  have  thought,"  said  Graham,  "that  no  one 
would  have  cared  for  Eleonora  if  it  were  not  for  Tasso." 

Kameau  glanced  at  the  Englishman  superciliously. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,  in  every  age  a  love-story  keeps  its 
interest ;  but  who  cares  nowadays  for  le  clinquant  du  Tasse  ?  " 

"  Le  clinquant  du  Tasse  !  "  exclaimed  Isaura,  indignantly. 

"  The  expression  is  Boileau's,  Mademoiselle,  in  ridicule  of 
the  '  Sot  de  qualite, '  who  prefers  — 

" '  Le  clinquant  du  Tasse  d  tout  I'or  de  Virgile.' 

But  for  my  part  I  have  as   little  faith  in  the  last  as  the 
first." 

"I  do  not  know  Latin,  and  have  therefore  not  read  Virgil," 
said  Isaura. 


144  THE   PARISIANS. 

"Possibly,"  remarked  Graham,  "Monsieur  does  not  know 
Italian,  and  has  therefore  not  read  Tasso." 

"  If  that  be  meant  in  sarcasm, "  retorted  Rameau,  "  I  con- 
strue it  as  a  compliment.  A  Frenchman  who  is  contented  to 
study  the  masterpieces  of  modern  literature  need  learn  no 
language  and  read  no  authors  but  his  own." 

Isaura  laughed  her  pleasant  silvery  laugh.  "I  should  ad- 
mire the  frankness  of  that  boast,  Monsieur,  if  in  our  talk  just 
now  you  had  not  spoken  as  contemptuously  of  what  we  are 
accustomed  to  consider  French  masterpieces  as  you  have  done 
of  Virgil  and  Tasso." 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle!  it  is  not  my  fault  if  you  have  had 
teachers  of  taste  so  rococo  as  to  bid  you  find  masterpieces  in 
the  tiresome  stilted  tragedies  of  Corneille  and  Racine.  Poetry 
of  a  court,  not  of  a  people,  one  simple  novel,  one  simple  stanza 
that  probes  the  hidden  recesses  of  the  human  heart,  reveals 
the  sores  of  this  wretched  social  state,  denounces  the  evils  of 
superstition,  kingcraft,  and  priestcraft,  is  worth  a  library  of 
the  rubbish  which  pedagogues  call  '  the  classics.'  We  agree, 
at  least,  in  one  thing,  Mademoiselle;  we  both  do  homage  to 
the  genius  of  your  friend  Madame  de  Grantmesnil." 

"Your  friend,  Signorina!  "  cried  Graham,  incredulously; 
"is  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  your  friend?" 

"The  dearest  I  have  in  the  world." 

Graham's  face  darkened;  he  turned  away  in  silence,  and  in 
another  minute  vanished  from  the  room,  persuading  himself 
that  he  felt  not  one  pang  of  jealousy  in  leaving  Gustave 
Rameau  by  the  side  of  Isaura.  "  Her  dearest  friend  Madame 
de  Grantmesnil!  "  he  muttered. 

A  word  now  on  Isaura's  chief  correspondent.  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil  was  a  woman  of  noble  birth  and  ample  fortune. 
She  had  separated  from  her  husband  in  the  second  year  after 
marriage.  She  was  a  singularly  eloquent  writer,  surpassed 
among  contemporaries  of  her  sex  in  popularity  and  renown 
only  by  Georges  Sand. 

At  least  as  fearless  as  that  great  novelist  in  the  frank  ex- 
position of  her  views,  she  had  commenced  her  career  in  let- 
ters by  a  work  of  astonishing  power  and  pathos,  directed 
against  the  institution  of  marriage  as  regulated  in  Roman 


THE  PARISIANS.  145 

'Catholic  communities.  I  do  not  know  that  it  said  more  on 
this  delicate  subject  than  the  English  Milton  has  said;  but 
then  Milton  did  not  write  for  a  Roman  Catholic  community, 
nor  adopt  a  style  likely  to  captivate  the  working  classes. 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  first  book  was  deemed  an  attack 
on  the  religion  of  the  country,  and  captivated  those  among 
the  working  classes  who  had  already  abjured  that  religion. 
This  work  was  followed  up  by  others  more  or  less  in  defiance  of 
"received  opinions,"  —  some  with  political,  some  with  social 
revolutionary  aim  and  tendency,  but  always  with  a  singular 
purity  of  style.  Search  all  her  books,  and  however  you 
might  revolt  from  her  doctrine,  you  could  not  find  a  hazardous 
expression.  The  novels  of  English  young  ladies  are  naughty 
in  comparison.  Of  late  years,  whatever  might  be  hard  or 
audacious  in  her  political  or  social  doctrines  softened  itself 
into  charm  amid  the  golden  haze  of  romance.  Her  writings 
had  grown  more  and  more  purely  artistic,  —  poetizing  what  is 
good  and  beautiful  in  the  realities  of  life  rather  than  creating 
a  false  ideal  out  of  what  is  vicious  and  deformed.  Such  a 
woman,  separated  young  from  her  husband,  could  not  enunci- 
ate such  opinions  and  lead  a  life  so  independent  and  uncon- 
trolled as  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  had  done,  without  scan- 
dal, without  calumny.  Nothing,  however,  in  her  actual  life 
had  ever  been  so  proved  against  her  as  to  lower  the  high  posi- 
tion she  occupied  in  right  of  birth,  fortune,  renown.  Wher- 
ever she  went  she  was  fet£e,  as  in  England  foreign  princes, 
and  in  America  foreign  authors,  are  fetes.  Those  who  knew 
her  well  concurred  in  praise  of  her  lofty,  generous,  lovable 
qualities.  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  had  known  Mr.  Selby; 
and  when,  at  his  death,  Isaura,  in  the  innocent  age  between 
childhood  and  youth,  had  been  left  the  most  sorrowful  and 
most  lonely  creature  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  this  famous 
woman,  worshipped  by  the  rich  for  her  intellect,  adored  by 
the  poor  for  her  beneficence,  came  to  the  orphan's  friendless 
side,  breathing  love  once  more  into  her  pining  heart,  and 
waking  for  the  first  time  the  desires  of  genius,  the  aspirations 
of  art,  in  the  dim  self-consciousness  of  a  soul  between  sleep 
and  waking. 

VOL.  I.  —  10 


146  THE  PARISIANS. 

But,  my  dear  Englishman,  put  yourself  in  Graham's  place, 
and  suppose  that  you  were  beginning  to  fall  in  love  with  a 
girl  whom  for  many  good  reasons  you  ought  not  to  marry; 
suppose  that  in  the  same  hour  in  which  you  were  angrily  con- 
scious of  jealousy  on  account  of  a  man  whom  it  wounds  your 
self-esteem  to  consider  a  rival,  the  girl  tells  you  that  her 
dearest  friend  is  a  woman  who  is  famed  for  her  hostility  to 
the  institution  of  marriage! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ON  the  same  day  in  which  Graham  dined  with  the  Sava- 
rins,  M.  Louvier  assembled  round  his  table  the  4lite  of  the 
young  Parisians  who  constituted  the  oligarchy  of  fashion,  to 
meet  whom  he  had  invited  his  new  friend  the  Marquis  de 
Rochebriant.  Most  of  them  belonged  to  the  Legitimist  party, 
the  noblesse  of  the  faubourg;  those  who  did  not,  belonged  to 
no  political  party  at  all,  —  indifferent  to  the  cares  of  mortal 
States  as  the  gods  of  Epicurus.  Foremost  among  this  Jeu- 
nesse  doree  were  Alain's  kinsmen,  Raoul  and  Enguerrand  de 
Vandemar.  To  these  Louvier  introduced  him  with  a  burly 
parental  bonhomie,  as  if  he  were  the  head  of  the  family.  "  I 
need  not  bid  you,  young  folks,  to  make  friends  with  each 
other.  A  Vandemar  and  a  Rochebriant  are  not  made  friends, 
—  they  are  born  friends."  So  saying  he  turned  to  his  other 
guests. 

Almost  in  an  instant  Alain  felt  his  constraint  melt  away  in 
the  cordial  warmth  with  which  his  cousins  greeted  him. 

These  young  men  had  a  striking  family  likeness  to  each 
other,  and  yet  in  feature,  colouring,  and  expression,  in  all 
save  that  strange  family  likeness,  they  were  contrasts. 

Raoul  was  tall,  and,  though  inclined  to  be  slender,  with 
sufficient  breadth  of  shoulder  to  indicate  no  inconsiderable 
strength  of  frame.  His  hair  worn  short  and  his  silky  beard 


THE  PARISIANS.  147 

•worn  long  were  dark ;  so  were  his  eyes,  shaded  by  curved  droop- 
ing lashes;  his  complexion  was  pale,  but  clear  and  healthful. 
In  repose  the  expression  of  his  face  was  that  of  a  somewhat 
melancholy  indolence,  but  in  speaking  it  became  singularly 
sweet,  with  a  smile  of  the  exquisite  urbanity  which  no  arti- 
ficial politeness  can  bestow;  it  must  emanate  from  that  native 
high  breeding  which  has  its  source  in  goodness  of  heart. 

Enguerrand  was  fair,  with  curly  locks  of  a  golden  chest- 
nut. He  wore  no  beard,  only  a  small  mustache  rather 
darker  than  his  hair.  His  complexion  might  in  itself  be 
called  effeminate,  its  bloom  was  so  fresh  and  delicate;  but 
there  was  so  much  of  boldness  and  energy  in  the  play  of  his 
countenance,  the  hardy  outline  of  the  lips,  and  the  open 
breadth  of  the  forehead,  that  "  effeminate  "  was  an  epithet  no 
one  ever  assigned  to  his  aspect.  He  was  somewhat  under 
the  middle  height,  but  beautifully  proportioned,  carried  him- 
self well,  and  somehow  or  other  did  not  look  short  even  by 
the  side  of  tall  men.  Altogether  he  seemed  formed  to  be  a 
mother's  darling,  and  spoiled  by  women,  yet  to  hold  his  own 
among  men  with  a  strength  of  will  more  evident  in  his  look 
and  his  bearing  than  it  was  in  those  of  his  graver  and  statelier 
brother. 

Both  were  considered  by  their  young  co-equals  models  in 
dress,  but  in  Raoul  there  was  no  sign  that  care  or  thought 
upon  dress  had  been  bestowed;  the  simplicity  of  his  costume 
was  absolute  and  severe.  On  his  plain  shirt-fixmt  there 
gleamed  not  a  stud,  on  his  fingers  there  sparkled  not  a  ring. 
Enguerrand,  on  the  contrary,  was  not  without  pretension  m 
his  attire;  the  broderie  in  his  shirt-front  seemed  woven  by 
the  Queen  of  the  Fairies.  His  rings  of  turquoise  and  opal,  his 
studs  and  wrist-buttons  of  pearl  and  brilliants,  must  have  cost 
double  the  rental  of  Rochebriant,  but  probably  they  cost  him 
nothing.  He  was  one  of  those  happy  Lotharios  to  whom 
Calistas  make  constant  presents.  All  about  him  was  so 
bright  that  the  atmosphere  around  seemed  gayer  for  his 
presence. 

In  one  respect  at  least  the  brothers  closely  resembled  each 
other,  —  in  that  exquisite  graciousness  of  manner  for  which 


148  THE  PARISIANS. 

the  genuine  French  noble  is  traditionally  renowned;  a  gra- 
ciousness  that  did  not  desert  them  even  when  they  came 
reluctantly  into  contact  with  roturiers  or  republicans;  but 
the  graciousness  became  fyalite,  fraternity  towards  one  of 
their  caste  and  kindred. 

"We  must  do  our  best  to  make  Paris  pleasant  to  you,"  said 
Raoul,  still  retaining  in  his  grasp  the  hand  he  had  taken. 

"  Vilain  cousin,"  said  the  livelier  Enguerrand,  "to  have 
been  in  Paris  twenty-four  hours,  and  without  letting  us 
know." 

"Has  not  your  father  told  you  that  I  called  upon  him?  " 

"Our  father,"  answered  Raoul,  "was  not  so  savage  as  to 
conceal  that  fact;  but  he  said  you  were  only  here  on  business 
for  a  day  or  two,  had  declined  his  invitation,  and  would  not 
give  your  address.  Pauvre  pere  !  we  scolded  him  well  for 
letting  you  escape  from  us  thus.  My  mother  has  not  for- 
given him  yet;  we  must  present  you  to  her  to-morrow.  I 
answer  for  your  liking  her  almost  as  much  as  she  will  like 
you." 

Before  Alain  could  answer  dinner  was  announced.  Alain's 
place  at  dinner  was  between  his  cousins.  How  pleasant  they 
made  themselves !  It  was  the  first  time  in  which  Alain  had 
been  brought  into  such  familiar  conversation  with  country- 
men of  his  own  rank  as  well  as  his  own  age.  His  heart 
warmed  to  them.  The  general  talk  of  the  other  guests  was 
strange  to  his  ear;  it  ran  much  upon  horses  and  races,  upon 
the  opera  and  the  ballet;  it  was  enlivened  with  satirical  anec- 
dotes of  persons  whose  names  were  unknown  to  the  Provin- 
cial ;  not  a  word  was  said  that  showed  the  smallest  interest 
in  politics  or  the  slightest  acquaintance  with  literature.  The 
world  of  these  well-born  guests  seemed  one  from  which  all 
that  concerned  the  great  mass  of  mankind  was  excluded,  yet 
the  talk  was  that  which  could  only  be  found  in  a  very  pol- 
ished society.  In  it  there  was  not  much  wit,  but  there  was  a 
prevalent  vein  of  gayety,  and  the  gayety  was  never  violent, 
the  laughter  was  never  loud;  the  scandals  circulated  might 
imply  cynicism  the  most  absolute,  but  in  language  the  most 
refined.  The  Jockey  Club  of  Paris  has  its  perfume. 


THE  PARISIANS.  149 

Raoul  did  not  mix  in  the  general  conversation;  he  devoted 
himself  pointedly  to  the  amusement  of  his  cousin,  explaining 
to  him  the  point  of  the  anecdotes  circulated,  or  hitting  off  in 
terse  sentences  the  characters  of  the  talkers. 

Enguerrand  was  evidently  of  temper  more  vivacious  than 
his  brother,  and  contributed  freely  to  the  current  play  of 
light  gossip  and  mirthful  sally. 

Louvier,  seated  between  a  duke  and  a  Russian  prince,  said 
little  except  to  recommend  a  wine  or  an  entree,  but  kept  his 
eye  constantly  on  the  Vandemars  and  Alain. 

Immediately  after  coffee  the  guests  departed.  Before  they 
did  so,  however,  Raoul  introduced  his  cousin  to  those  of  the 
party  most  distinguished  by  hereditary  rank  or  social  posi- 
tion. With  these  the  name  of  Rochebriant  was  too  histori- 
cally famous  not  to  insure  respect  of  its  owner;  they  wel- 
comed him  among  them  as  if  he  were  their  brother. 

The  French  duke  claimed  him  as  a  connection  by  an  alli- 
ance in  the  fourteenth  century ;  the  Russian  prince  had  known 
the  late  Marquis,  and  trusted  that  the  son  would  allow  him 
to  improve  into  friendship  the  acquaintance  he  had  formed 
with  the  father. 

Those  ceremonials  over,  Raoul  linked  his  arm  in  Alain's  and 
said :  "  I  am  not  going  to  release  you  so  soon  after  we  have 
caught  you.  You  must  come  with  me  to  a  house  in  which  I 
at  least  spend  an  hour  or  two  every  evening.  I  am  at  home 
there.  Bah!  I  take  no  refusal.  Do  not  suppose  I  carry  you 
off  to  Bohemia,  —  a  country  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Enguer- 
rand now  and  then  visits,  but  which  is  to  me  as  unknown  as 
the  mountains  of  the  moon.  The  house  I  speak  of  is  comme 
ilfaut  to  the  utmost.  It  is  that  of  the  Contessa  di  Rimini,  — 
a  charming  Italian  by  marriage,  but  by  birth  and  in  character 
on  ne  pent  plus  Fran$aise.  My  mother  adores  her." 

That  dinner  at  M.  Louvier 's  had  already  effected  a  great 
change  in  the  mood  and  temper  of  Alain  de  Rochebriant;  he 
felt,  as  if  by  magic,  the  sense  of  youth,  of  rank,  of  station, 
which  had  been  so  suddenly  checked  and  stifled,  warmed  to 
life  Avithin  his  veins.  He  should  have  deemed  himself  a  bocr 
had  he  refused  the  invitation  so  frankly  tendered. 


150  THE  PARISIANS. 

But  on  reaching  the  coupi  which  the  brothers  kept  in  com- 
mon, and  seeing  it  only  held  two,  he  drew  back. 

"Nay,  enter,  mon  cher,"  said  Raoul,  divining  the  cause  of 
his  hesitation}  "Enguerrand  has  gone  on  to  his  club." 


CHAPTER   V. 

"TELL  me,"  said  Raoul,  when  they  were  in  the  carriage, 
"how  you  came  to  know  M.  Louvier." 

"He  is  my  chief  mortgagee." 

"H'm!  that  explains  it.  But  you  might  be  in  worse  hands; 
the  man  has  a  character  for  liberality." 

"Did  your  father  mention  to  you  my  circumstances,  and 
the  reason  that  brings  me  to  Paris?" 

"  Since  you  put  the  question  point-blank,  my  dear  cousin, 
he  did." 

"  He  told  you  how  poor  I  am,  and  how  keen  must  be  my 
lifelong  struggle  to  keep  Rochebriant  as  the  home  of  my 
race?  " 

"  He  told  us  all  that  could  make  us  still  more  respect  the 
Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  and  still  more  eagerly  long  to  know 
our  cousin  arid  the  head  of  our  house,"  answered  Raoul,  with 
a  certain  nobleness  of  tone  and  manner. 

Alain  pressed  his  kinsman's  hand  with  grateful  emotion. 

"Yet,"  he  said  f alter ingly,  "your  father  agreed  with  me 
that  my  circumstances  would  not  allow  me  to  —  " 

"  Bah !  "  interrupted  Raoul,  with  a  gentle  laugh ;  "  my 
father  is  a  very  clever  man,  doubtless,  but  he  knows  only  the 
world  of  his  own  day,  nothing  of  the  world  of  ours.  I  and 
Enguerrand  will  call  on  you  to-morrow,  to  take  you  to  my 
mother,  and  before  doing  so,  to  consult  as  to  affairs  in  gen- 
eral. On  this  last  matter  Enguerrand  is  an  oracle.  Here  we 
are  at  the  Contessa's." 


THE  PARISIANS.  151 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  Contessa  di  Rimini  received  her  visitors  in  a  bou- 
doir furnished  with  much  apparent  simplicity,  but  a  simplic- 
ity by  no  means  inexpensive.  The  draperies  were  but  of 
chintz,  and  the  walls  covered  with  the  same  material,  — a 
lively  pattern,  in  which  the  prevalents  were  rose-colour  and 
white ;  but  the  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece,  the  china  stored 
in  the  cabinets  or  arranged  on  the  shelves,  the  small  knick- 
knacks  scattered  on  the  tables,  were  costly  rarities  of  art. 

The  Contessa  herself  was  a  woman  who  had  somewhat 
passed  her  thirtieth  year,  —  not  strikingly  handsome,  but  ex- 
quisitely pretty.  "There  is,"  said  a  great  French  writer, 
"only  one  way  in  which  a  woman  can  be  handsome,  but  a 
hundred  thousand  ways  in  which  she  can  be  pretty;  "  and  it 
would  be  impossible  to  reckon  up  the  number  of  ways  in 
which  Adeline  di  Rimini  carried  off  the  prize  in  prettiness. 

Yet  it  would  be  unjust  to  the  personal  attractions  of  the  Con- 
tessa to  class  them  all  under  the  word  "prettiness."  When 
regarded  more  attentively,  there  was  an  expression  in  her 
countenance  that  might  almost  be  called  divine,  it  spoke  so 
unmistakably  of  a  sweet  nature  and  an  untroubled  soul.  An 
English  poet  once  described  her  by  repeating  the  old  lines, — 

"  Her  face  is  like  the  milky  way  i'  the  sky,  — 
A  meeting  of  gentle  lights  without  a  name." 

She  was  not  alone ;  an  elderly  lady  sat  on  an  armchair  by 
the  fire,  engaged  in  knitting;  and  a  man,  also  elderly,  and 
whose  dress  proclaimed  him  an  ecclesiastic,  sat  at  the  op- 
posite corner,  with  a  large  Angora  cat  on  his  lap. 

"I  present  to  you,  Madame,"  said  Raoul,  "my  new-found 
cousin,  the  seventeenth  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  whom  I  am 
proud  to  consider  on  the  male  side  the  head  of  our  house, 
representing  its  eldest  branch.  Welcome  him  for  my  sake, 
—  in  future  he  will  be  welcome  for  his  own." 


152  THE  PARISIANS. 

The  Contessa  replied  very  graciously  to  this  introduction, 
and  made  room  for  Alain  on  the  divan  from  which  she  had 
risen. 

The  old  lady  looked  up  from  her  knitting;  the  ecclesiastic 
removed  the  cat  from  his  lap.  Said  the  old  lady,  "I  an- 
nounce myself  to  M.  le  Marquis.  I  knew  his  mother  well 
enough  to  be  invited  to  his  christening;  otherwise  I  have  no 
pretension  to  the  acquaintance  of  a  cavalier  si  beau,  being 
old,  rather  deaf,  very  stupid,  exceedingly  poor  —  " 

"And,"  interrupted  Kaoul,  "the  woman  in  all  Paris  the 
most  adored  for  bont£,  and  consulted  for  savoir  vivre  by  the 
young  cavaliers  whom  she  deigns  to  receive.  Alain,  I  pre- 
sent you  to  Madame  de  Maury,  the  widow  of  a  distinguished 
author  and  academician,  and  the  daughter  of  the  brave  Henri 
de  Gerval,  who  fought  for  the  good  cause  in  La  Vendee.  I 
present  you  also  to  the  Abb6  Vertpre",  who  has  passed  his 
life  in  the  vain  endeavour  to  make  other  men  as  good  as 
himself." 

"Base  flatterer!  "  said  the  Abbe",  pinching  Kaoul's  ear  with 
one  hand,  while  he  extended  the  other  to  Alain.  "Do  not 
let  your  cousin  frighten  you  from  knowing  me,  Monsieur  le 
Marquis ;  when  he  was  my  pupil,  he  so  convinced  me  of  the 
incorrigibility  of  perverse  human  nature,  that  I  now  chiefly 
address  myself  to  the  moral  improvement  of  the  brute  crea- 
tion. Ask  the  Contessa  if  I  have  not  achieved  a  beau  succes 
with  her  Angora  cat.  Three  months  ago  that  creature  had 
the  two  worst  propensities  of  man, —  he  was  at  once  savage 
and  mean;  he  bit,  he  stole.  Does  he  ever  bite  now?  No. 
Does  he  ever  steal?  No.  Why?  I  have  awakened  in  that 
cat  the  dormant  conscience,  and  that  done,  the  conscience 
regulates  his  actions ;  once  made  aware  of  the  difference  be- 
tween wrong  and  right,  the  cat  maintains  it  unswervingly,  as 
if  it  were  a  law  of  nature.  But  if,  with  prodigious  labour, 
one  does  awaken  conscience  in  a  human  sinner,  it  has  no 
steady  effect  on  his  conduct, —  he  continues  to  sin  all  the 
same.  Mankind  at  Paris,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  is  divided 
between  two  classes, —  one  bites  and  the  other  steals.  Shun 
both;  devote  yourself  to  cats." 


THE  PARISIANS.  153 

The  Abbe"  delivered  this  oration  with  a  gravity  of  mien  and 
tone  which  made  it  difficult  to  guess  whether  he  spoke  in 
sport  or  in  earnest,  in  simple  playfulness  or  with  latent 
sarcasm. 

But  on  the  brow  and  in  the  eye  of  the  priest  there  was  a 
general  expression  of  quiet  benevolence,  which  made  Alain 
incline  to  the  belief  that  he  was  only  speaking  as  a  pleasant 
humourist;  and  the  Marquis  replied  gayly, — 

"Monsieur  1'Abbe",  admitting  the  superior  virtue  of  cats 
when  taught  by  so  intelligent  a  preceptor,  still  the  business  of 
human  life  is  not  transacted  by  cats;  and  since  men  must 
deal  with  men,  permit  me,  as  a  preliminary  caution,  to  in- 
quire in  which  class  I  must  rank  yourself.  Do  you  bite  or 
do  you  steal?  " 

This  sally,  which  showed  that  the  Marquis  was  already 
shaking  off  his  provincial  reserve,  met  with  great  success. 

Raoul  and  the  Contessa  laughed  merrily;  Madame  de  Maury 
clapped  her  hands,  and  cried  "  Bien  !  " 

The  Abb6  replied,  with  unmoved  gravity,  "  Both.  I  am  a 
priest ;  it  is  my  duty  to  bite  the  bad  arid  steal  from  the  good, 
as  you  will  see,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  if  you  will  glance  at 
this  paper." 

Here  he  handed  to  Alain  a  memorial  on  behalf  of  an  af- 
flicted family  who  had  been  burnt  out  of  their  home,  and  re- 
duced from  comparative  ease  to  absolute  want.  There  was  a 
list  appended  of  some  twenty  subscribers,  the  last  being  the 
Contessa,  fifty  francs,  and  Madame  de  Maury,  five. 

"Allow  me,  Marquis,"  said  the  Abbe",  " to  steal  from  you. 
Bless  you  twofold,  monfils!  "  (taking  the  napoleon  Alain  ex- 
tended to  him)  first  for  your  charity ;  secondly,  for  the  effect 
of  its  example  upon  the  heart  of  your  cousin.  Raoul  de 
Vandemar,  stand  and  deliver.  Bah!  what!  only  ten  francs." 

Kaoul  made  a  sign  to  the  Abbe",  unperceived  by  the  rest, 
as  he  answered,  "  Abbe",  I  should  excel  your  expectations  of 
my  career  if  I  always  continue  worth  half  as  much  as  my 
cousin." 

Alain  felt  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  delicate  tact  of  his 
richer  kinsman  in  giving  less  than  himself,  and  the  Abb6 


154  THE  PARISIANS. 

replied,  "Niggard,  you  are  pardoned.  Humility  is  a  more 
difficult  virtue  to  produce  than  charity,  and  in  your  case  an 
instance  of  it  is  so  rare  that  it  merits  encouragement." 

The  "  tea  equipage "  was  now  served  in  what  at  Paris  is 
called  the  English  fashion ;  the  Contessa  presided  over  it,  the 
guests  gathered  round  the  table,  and  the  evening  passed  away 
in  the  innocent  gayety  of  a  domestic  circle.  The  talk,  if  not 
especially  intellectual,  was  at  least  not  fashionable.  Books 
were  not  discussed,  neither  were  scandals;  yet  somehow  or 
other  it  was  cheery  and  animated,  like  that  of  a  happy  family 
in  a  country-house.  Alain  thought  still  the  better  of  Baoul 
that,  Parisian  though  he  was,  he  could  appreciate  the  charm 
of  an  evening  so  innocently  spent. 

On  taking  leave,  the  Contessa  gave  Alain  a  general  invita- 
tion to  drop  in  whenever  he  was  not  better  engaged. 

"I  except  only  the  opera  nights,"  said  she.  "My  husband 
has  gone  to  Milan  on  his  affairs,  and  during  his  absence  I  do 
not  go  to  parties;  the  opera  I  cannot  resist." 

Eaoul  set  Alain  down  at  his  lodgings.  "  Au  revoir;  to- 
morrow at  one  o'clock  expect  Enguerrand  and  myself." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

RAOUL  and  Enguerrand  called  on  Alain  at  the  hour  fixed. 

"  In  the  first  place, "  said  Eaoul,  "  I  must  beg  you  to  accept 
my  mother's  regrets  that  she  cannot  receive  you  to-day.  She 
and  the  Contessa  belong  to  a  society  of  ladies  formed  for 
visiting  the  poor,  and  this  is  their  day ;  but  to-morrow  you 
must  dine  with  us  en  famille.  Now  to  business.  Allow  me 
to  light  my  cigar  while  you  confide  the  whole  state  of  af- 
fairs to  Enguerrand.  Whatever  he  counsels,  I  am  sure  to 
approve." 

Alain,  as  briefly  as  he  could,  stated  his  circumstances,  his 
mortgages,  and  the  hopes  which  his  avou&  had  encouraged 


THE  PARISIANS.  155 

him  to  place  in  the  friendly  disposition  of  M.  Louvier. 
When  he  had  concluded,  Enguerrand  mused  for  a  few  mo- 
ments before  replying.  At  last  he  said,  "Will  you  trust  me 
to  call  on  Louvier  on  your  behalf?  I  shall  but  inquire  if  he 
is  inclined  to  take  on  himself  the  other  mortgages ;  and  if  so, 
on  what  terms.  Our  relationship  gives  me  the  excuse  for  my 
interference;  and  to  say  truth,  I  have  had  much  familiar  in- 
tercourse with  the  man.  I  too  am  a  speculator,  and  have 
often  profited  by  Louvier's  advice.  You  may  ask  what  can 
be  his  object  in  serving  me;  he  can  gain  nothing  by  it.  To 
this  I  answer,  the  key  to  his  good  offices  is  in  his  character. 
Audacious  though  he  be  as  a  speculator,  he  is  wonderfully 
prudent  as  a  politician.  This  belle  France  of  ours  is  like  a 
stage  tumbler;  one  can  never  be  sure  whether  it  will  stand 
on  its  head  or  its  feet.  Louvier  very  wisely  wishes  to  feel 
himself  safe  whatever  party  comes  uppermost.  He  has  no 
faith  in  the  duration  of  the  Empire;  and  as,  at  all  events, 
the  Empire  will  not  confiscate  his  millions,  he  takes  no 
trouble  in  conciliating  Imperialists.  But  on  the  principle 
which  induces  certain  savages  to  worship  the  devil  and  ne- 
glect the  bon  Dieu,  because  the  devil  is  spiteful  and  the  bon 
Dieu  is  too  beneficent  to  injure  them,  Louvier,  at  heart  de- 
testing as  well  as  dreading  a  republic,  lays  himself  out  to 
secure  friends  with  the  Republicans  of  all  classes,  and  pre- 
tends to  espouse  their  cause;  next  to  them,  he  is  very  con- 
ciliatory to  the  Orleanists;  lastly,  though  he  thinks  the  Le- 
gitimists have  no  chance,  he  desires  to  keep  well  with  the 
nobles  of  that  party,  because  they  exercise  a  considerable  in- 
fluence over  that  sphere  of  opinion  which  belongs  to  fashion, 
—  for  fashion  is  never  powerless  in  Paris.  Eaoul  and  my- 
self are  no  mean  authorities  in  salons  and  clubs,  and  a  good 
word  from  us  is  worth  having. 

"Besides,  Louvier  himself  in  his  youth  set  up  for  a  dandy; 
and  that  deposed  ruler  of  dandies,  our  unfortunate  kinsman, 
Victor  de  MauMon,  shed  some  of  his  own  radiance  on  the 
money-lender's  son.  But  when  Victor's  star  was  eclipsed, 
Louvier  ceased  to  gleam.  The  dandies  cut  him.  In  his 
heart  he  exults  that  the  dandies  now  throng  to  his  soirees. 


156  THE  PARISIANS. 

Bref,  the  millionnaire  is  especially  civil  to  me, —  the  more 
so  as  I  know  intimately  two  or  three  eminent  journalists; 
and  Louvier  takes  pains  to  plant  garrisons  in  the  press.  I 
trust  I  have  explained  the  grounds  on  which  I  may  be  a  bet- 
ter diplomatist  to  employ  than  your  avout;  and  with  your 
leave  I  will  go  to  Louvier  at  once." 

"Let  him  go,"  said  Raoul.  "Enguerrand  never  fails  in 
anything  he  undertakes ;  especially,"  he  added,  with  a  smile 
half  sad,  half  tender,  "when  one  wishes  to  replenish  one's 
purse." 

"  I  too  gratefully  grant  such  an  ambassador  all  powers  to 
treat,"  said  Alain.  "I  am  only  ashamed  to  consign  to  him  a 
post  so  much  beneath  his  genius,"  and  "his  birth"  he  was 
about  to  add,  but  wisely  checked  himself.  Enguerrand  said, 
shrugging  his  shoulders,  "You  can't  do  me  a  greater  kind- 
ness than  by  setting  my  wits  at  work.  I  fall  a  martyr  to 
ennui  when  I  am  not  in  action,"  he  said,  and  was  gone. 

"  It  makes  me  very  melancholy  at  times, "  said  Raoul,  fling- 
ing away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  "  to  think  that  a  man  so  clever 
and  so  energetic  as  Enguerrand  should  be  as  much  excluded 
from  the  service  of  his  country  as  if  he  were  an  Iroquois  In- 
dian. He  would  have  made  a  great  diplomatist." 

"Alas!"  replied  Alain,  with  a  sigh,  "I  begin  to  doubt 
whether  we  Legitimists  are  justified  in  maintaining  a  useless 
loyalty  to  a  sovereign  who  renders  us  morally  exiles  in  the 
land  of  our  birth." 

"I  have  no  doubt  on  the  subject,"  said  Eaoul.  "We  are 
not  justified  on  the  score  of  policy,  but  we  have  no  option  at 
present  on  the  score  of  honour.  We  should  gain  so  much  for 
ourselves  if  we  adopted  the  State  livery  and  took  the  State 
wages  that  no  man  would  esteem  us  as  patriots ;  we  should 
only  be  despised  as  apostates.  So  long  as  Henry  V.  lives, 
and  does  not  resign  his  claim,  we  cannot  be  active  citizens; 
we  must  be  mournful  lookers-on.  But  what  matters  it?  We 
nobles  of  the  old  race  are  becoming  rapidly  extinct.  Under 
any  form  of  government  likely  to  be  established  in  France 
we  are  equally  doomed.  The  French  people,  aiming  at  an 
impossible  equality,  will  never  again  tolerate  a  race  of 


THE  PARISIANS.  157 

gentilshommes.  They  cannot  prevent,  without  destroying 
commerce  and  capital  altogether,  a  quick  succession  of  men  of 
the  day,  who  form  nominal  aristocracies  much  more  opposed 
to  equality  than  any  hereditary  class  of  nobles ;  but  they  re- 
fuse these  fleeting  substitutes  of  born  patricians  all  perma- 
nent stake  in  the  country,  since  whatever  estate  they  buy 
must  be  subdivided  at  their  death.  My  poor  Alain,  you  are 
making  it  the  one  ambition  of  your  life  to  preserve  to  your 
posterity  the  home  and  lands  of  your  forefathers.  How  is 
that  possible,  even  supposing  you  could  redeem  the  mortga- 
ges? You  marry  some  day;  you  have  children,  and  Eoche- 
briant  must  then  be  sold  to  pay  for  their  separate  portions. 
How  this  condition  of  things,  while  rendering  us  so  ineffec- 
tive to  perform  the  normal  functions  of  a  noblesse  in  public 
life,  affects  us  in  private  life,  may  be  easily  conceived. 

"  Condemned  to  a  career  of  pleasure  and  frivolity,  we  can 
scarcely  escape  from  the  contagion  of  extravagant  luxury 
which  forms  the  vice  of  the  time.  With  grand  names  to 
keep  up,  and  small  fortunes  whereon  to  keep  them,  we 
readily  incur  embarrassment  and  debt.  Then  neediness  con- 
quers pride.  We  cannot  be  great  merchants,  but  we  can  be 
small  gamblers  on  the  Bourse,  or,  thanks  to  the  Credit  Mo- 
bilier,  imitate  a  cabinet  minister,  and  keep  a  shop  under  an- 
other name.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  that  Enguerrand  and 
I  keep  a  shop.  Pray,  buy  your  gloves  there.  Strange  fate 
for  men  whose  ancestors  fought  in  the  first  Crusade  —  mais 
que  voulez-vous  ?  " 

"I  was  told  of  the  shop,"  said  Alain;  "but  the  moment  I 
knew  you  I  disbelieved  the  story." 

"  Quite  true.  Shall  I  confide  to  you  why  we  resorted  to  that 
means  of  finding  ourselves  in  pocket-money?  My  father  gives 
us  rooms  in  his  hotel;  the  use  of  his  table,  which  we  do  not 
much  profit  by;  and  an  allowance,  on  which  we  could  not  live 
as  young  men  of  our  class  live  at  Paris.  Enguerrand  had  his 
means  of  spending  pocket-money,  I  mine;  but  it  came  to  the 
same  thing, — the  pockets  were  emptied.  We  incurred  debts. 
Two  years  ago  my  father  straitened  himself  to  pay  them,  say- 
ing, '  The  next  time  you  come  to  me  with  debts,  however 


158  THE  PARISIANS. 

small,  you  must  pay  them  yourselves,  or  you  must  marry, 
and  leave  it  to  me  to  find  you  wives.'  This  threat  appalled 
us  both.  A  month  afterwards,  Enguerrand  made  a  lucky  hit 
at  the  Bourse,  and  proposed  to  invest  the  proceeds  in  a  shop. 
I  resisted  as  long  as  I  could ;  but  Enguerrand  triumphed  over 
me,  as  he  always  does.  He  found  an  excellent  deputy  in  a 
bonne  who  had  nursed  us  in  childhood,  and  married  a  jour- 
neyman perfumer  who  understands  the  business.  It  answers 
well;  we  are  not  in  debt,  and  we  have  preserved  our 
freedom." 

After  these  confessions  Raoul  went  away,  and  Alain  fell 
into  a  mournful  revery,  from  which  he  was  roused  by  a  loud 
ring  at  his  bell.  He  opened  the  door,  and  beheld  M.  Louvier. 
The  burly  financier  was  much  out  of  breath  after  making  so 
steep  an  ascent.  It  was  in  gasps  that  he  muttered,  "Bon 
jour;  excuse  me  if  I  derange  you."  Then  entering  and  seat- 
ing himself  on  a  chair,  he  took  some  minutes  to  recover 
speech,  rolling  his  eyes  staringly  round  the  meagre,  unluxu- 
rious  room,  and  then  concentrating  their  gaze  upon  its 
occupier. 

"  Peste,  my  dear  Marquis ! "  he  said  at  last,  "  I  hope  the 
next  time  I  visit  you  the  ascent  may  be  less  arduous.  One 
would  think  you  were  in  training  to  ascend  the  Himalaya." 

The  haughty  noble  writhed  under  this  jest,  and  the  spirit 
inborn  in  his  order  spoke  in  his  answer. 

"I  am  accustomed  to  dwell  on  heights,  Monsieur  Louvier; 
the  castle  of  Kochebriant  is  not  on  a  level  with  the  town." 

An  angry  gleam  shot  out  from  the  eyes  of  the  millionnaire, 
but  there  was  no  other  sign  of  displeasure  in  his  answer. 

"JBien  dit,  mon  cher;  how  you  remind  me  of  your  father! 
Now,  give  me  leave  to  speak  on  affairs.  I  have  seen  your 
cousin  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar.  Homme  de  moyens,  though 
joli  gar?on.  He  proposed  that  you  should  call  on  me.  T  said 
'  no  '  to  the  cher  petit  Enguerrand,  —  a  visit  from  me  was  due 
to  you.  To  cut  matters  short,  M.  Gandrin  has  allowed  me  to 
look  into  your  papers.  I  was  disposed  to  serve  you  from  the 
first;  I  am  still  more  disposed  to  serve  you  now.  I  under- 
take to  pay  off  all  your  other  mortgages,  and  become  sole 


THE  PARISIANS.  159 

mortgagee,  and  on  terms  that  I  have  jotted  down  on  this 
paper,  and  which  I  hope  will  content  you." 

He  placed  a  paper  in  Alain's  hand,  and  took  out  a  box, 
from  which  he  extracted  a  jujube,  placed  it  in  his  mouth, 
folded  his  hands,  and  reclined  back  in  his  chair,  with  his 
eyes  half  closed,  as  if  exhausted  alike  by  his  ascent  and  his 
generosity. 

In  effect,  the  terms  were  unexpectedly  liberal.  The  re- 
duced interest  on  the  mortgages  would  leave  the  Marquis  an 
income  of  £  1,000  a  year  instead  of  £400.  Louvier  proposed 
to  take  on  himself  the  legal  cost  of  transfer,  and  to  pay  to 
the  Marquis  25,000  francs,  on  the  completion  of  the  deed,  as 
a  bonus.  The  mortgage  did  not  exempt  the  building-land,  as 
Hubert  desired.  In  all  else  it  was  singularly  advantageous, 
and  Alain  could  but  feel  a  thrill  of  grateful  delight  at  an 
offer  by  which  his  stinted  income  was  raised  to  comparative 
affluence. 

"Well,  Marquis,"  said  Louvier,  "what  does  the  castle  say 
to  the  town?  " 

"Monsieur  Louvier,"  answered  Alain,  extending  his  hand 
with  cordial  eagerness,  "  accept  my  sincere  apologies  for  the 
indiscretion  of  my  metaphor.  Poverty  is  proverbially  sensi- 
tive to  jests  on  it.  I  owe  it  to  you  if  I  cannot  hereafter  make 
that  excuse  for  any  words  of  mine  that  may  displease  you. 
The  terms  you  propose  are  most  liberal,  and  I  close  with 
them  at  once." 

"Bon,"  said  Louvier,  shaking  vehemently  the  hand  offered 
to  him ;  "  I  will  take  the  paper  to  Gandrin,  and  instruct  him 
accordingly.  And  now,  may  I  attach  a  condition  to  the 
agreement  which  is  not  put  down  on  paper?  It  may  have 
surprised  you  perhaps  that  I  should  propose  a  gratuity  of 
25,000  francs  on  completion  of  the  contract.  It  is  a  droll 
thing  to  do,  and  not  in  the  ordinary  way  of  business,  there- 
fore I  must  explain.  Marquis,  pardon  the  liberty  I  take,  but 
you  have  inspired  me  with  an  interest  in  your  future.  With 
your  birth,  connections,  and  figure  you  should  push  your  way 
in  the  world  far  and  fast.  But  you  can't  do  so  in  a  province. 
You  must  find  your  opening  at  Paris.  I  wish  you  to  spend  a 


160  THE  PARISIANS. 

year  in  the  capital,  and  live,  not  extravagantly,  like  a 
nouveau  rlche,  but  in  a  way  not  unsuited  to  your  rank,  and 
permitting  you  all  the  social  advantages  that  belong  to  it. 
These  25,000  francs,  in  addition  to  your  improved  income, 
will  enable  you  to  gratify  my  wish  in  this  respect.  Spend 
the  money  in  Paris ;  you  will  want  every  sou  of  it  in  the 
course  of  the  year.  It  will  be  money  well  spent.  Take  my 
advice,  cher  Marquis.  Au  plaisir." 

The  financier  bowed  himself  out.  The  young  Marquis  for- 
got all  the  mournful  reflections  with  which  Eaoul's  conversa- 
tion had  inspired  him.  He  gave  a  new  touch  to  his  toilette, 
and  sallied  forth  with  the  air  of  a  man  on  whose  morning  of 
life  a  sun  heretofore  clouded  has  burst  forth  and  bathed  the 
landscape  in  its  light. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SINCE  the  evening  spent  at  the  Savarins',  Graham  had  seen 
no  more  of  Isaura.  He  had  avoided  all  chance  of  seeing  her; 
in  fact,  the  jealousy  with  which  he  had  viewed  her  manner 
towards  Rameau,  and  the  angry  amaze  with  which  he  had 
heard  her  proclaim  her  friendship  for  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil,  served  to  strengthen  the  grave  and  secret  reasons 
which  made  him  desire  to  keep  his  heart  yet  free  and  his 
hand  yet  unpledged.  But  alas!  the  heart  was  enslaved  al- 
ready. It  was  under  the  most  fatal  of  all  spells, —  first  love 
conceived  at  first  sight.  He  was  wretched;  and  in  his 
wretchedness  his  resolves  became  involuntarily  weakened. 
He  found  himself  making  excuses  for  the  beloved.  What 
cause  had  he,  after  all,  for  that  jealousy  of  the  young  poet 
which  had  so  offended  him;  and  if  in  her  youth  and  inexpe- 
rience Isaura  had  made  her  dearest  friend  of  a  great  writer 
by  whose  genius  she  might  be  dazzled,  and  of  whose  opinions 
she  might  scarcely  be  aware,  was  it  a  crime  that  necessitated 
her  eternal  banishment  from  the  reverence  which  belongs  to 


THE  PAKISIANS.  161 

all  manly  love?  Certainly  he  found  no  satisfactory  answers 
to  such  self-questionings.  And  then  those  grave  reasons 
known  only  to  himself,  and  never  to  be  confided  to  another  — 
why  he  should  yet  reserve  his  hand  unpledged  —  were  not  so 
imperative  as  to  admit  of  no  compromise.  They  might  entail 
a  sacrifice,  and  not  a  small  one  to  a  man  of  Graham's  views 
and  ambition.  But  what  is  love  if  it  can  think  any  sacrifice, 
i short  of  duty  and  honour,  too  great  to  offer  up  unknown, 
uncomprehended,  to  the  one  beloved?  Still,  while  thus 
softened  in  his  feelings  towards  Isaura,  he  became,  perhaps 
in  consequence  of  such  softening,  more  and  more  restlessly 
impatient  to  fulfil  the  object  for  which  he  had  come  to  Paris, 
the  great  step  towards  which  was  the  discovery  of  the  un- 
discoverable  Louise  Duval. 

He  had  written  more  than  once  to  M.  Eenard  since  the  in- 
terview with  that  functionary  already  recorded,  demanding 
whether  Eenard  had  not  made  some  progress  in  the  research 
on  which  he  was  employed,  and  had  received  short  unsatis- 
factory replies  preaching  patience  and  implying  hope. 

The  plain  truth,  however,  was  that  M.  Eenard  had  taken 
no  further  pains  in  the  matter.  He  considered  it  utter  waste 
of  time  and  thought  to  attempt  a  discovery  to  which  the 
traces  were  so  faint  and  so  obsolete.  If  the  discovery  were 
effected,  it  must  be  by  one  of  those  chances  which  occur  with- 
out labour  or  forethought  of  our  own.  He  trusted  only  to 
such  a  chance  in  continuing  the  charge  he  had  undertaken. 
But  during  the  last  day  or  two  Graham  had  become  yet  more 
impatient  than  before,  and  peremptorily  requested  another 
visit  from  this  dilatory  confidant. 

In  that  visit,  finding  himself  pressed  hard,  and  though 
naturally  willing,  if  possible,  to  retain  a  client  unusually 
generous,  yet  being  on  the  whole  an  honest  member  of  his 
profession,  and  feeling  it  to  be  somewhat  unfair  to  accept 
large  remuneration  for  doing  nothing,  M.  Eenard  said  frankly, 
"Monsieur,  this  affair  is  beyond  me;  the  keenest  agent  of  our 
police  could  make  nothing  of  it.  Unless  you  can  tell  me  more 
than  you  have  done,  I  am  utterly  without  a  clew.  I  resign, 

VOL.  I. — 11 


162  THE  PARISIANS. 

therefore,  the  task  with  which  you  honoured  me,  willing  to 
resume  it  again  if  you  can  give  me  information  that  could 
render  me  of  use." 

"What  sort  of  information?  " 

"At  least  the  names  of  some  of  the  lady's  relations  who 
may  yet  be  living." 

"But  it  strikes  me  that,  if  I  could  get  at  that  piece  of 
knowledge,  I  should  not  require  the  services  of  the  police. 
The  relations  would  tell  me  what  had  become  of  Louise 
Duval  quite  as  readily  as  they  would  tell  a  police  agent." 

"Quite  true,  Monsieur.  It  would  really  be  picking  your 
pockets  if  I  did  not  at  once  retire  from  your  service.  Nay, 
Monsieur,  pardon  me,  no  further  payments;  I  have  already 
accepted  too  much.  Your  most  obedient  servant." 

Graham,  left  alone,  fell  into  a  very  gloomy  revery.  He 
could  not  but  be  sensible  of  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  the 
object  which  had  brought  him  to  Paris,  with  somewhat  san- 
guine expectations  of  success  founded  on  a  belief  in  the  omni- 
science of  the  Parisian  police,  which  is  only  to  be  justified 
when  they  have  to  deal  with  a  murderess  or  a  political  incen- 
diary. But  the  name  of  Louise  Duval  is  about  as  common  in 
France  as  that  of  Mary  Smith  in  England;  and  the  English 
reader  may  judge  what  would  be  the  likely  result  of  inquiring 
through  the  ablest  of  our  detectives  after  some  Mary  Smith 
of  whom  you  could  give  little  more  information  than  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  a  drawing-master  who  had  died  twenty 
years  ago,  that  it  was  about  fifteen  years  since  anything  had 
been  heard  of  her,  that  you  could  not  say  if  through  marriage 
or  for  other  causes  she  had  changed  her  name  or  not,  and 
you  had  reasons  for  declining  resort  to  public  advertisements. 
In  the  course  of  inquiry  so  instituted,  the  probability  would 
be  that  you  might  hear  of  a  great  many  Mary  Smiths,  in  the 
pursuit  of  whom  your  employe  would  lose  all  sight  and  scent 
of  the  one  Mary  Smith  for  whom  the  chase  was  instituted. 

In  the  midst  of  Graham's  despairing  reflections  his  laquais 
announced  M.  Frederic  Lemercier. 

"  Cher  Grarm-Varn.     A  thousand  pardons  if  I  disturb  you 


THE  PARISIANS.  163 

at  this  late  hour  of  the  evening;  but  you  remember  the  re- 
quest you  made  me  when  you  first  arrived  in  Paris  this 
season?  " 

"Of  course  I  do, —  in  case  you  should  ever  chance  in  your 
wide  round  of  acquaintance  to  fall  in  with  a  Madame  or  Ma- 
demoiselle Duval  of  about  the  age  of  forty,  or  a  year  or  so  less, 
to  let  me  know ;  and  you  did  fall  in  with  two  ladies  of  that 
name,  but  they  were  not  the  right  one,  not  the  person  whom 
my  friend  begged  me  to  discover;  both  much  too  young." 

"  Eh  bien,  mon  cher.  If  you  will  come  with  me  to  the  bal 
champetre  in  the  Champs  Elyse"es  to-night,  I  can  show  you  a 
third  Madame  Duval, —  her  Christian  name  is  Louise,  too, — 
of  the  age  you  mention, —  though  she  does  her  best  to  look 
younger,  and  is  still  very  handsome.  You  said  your  Duval 
was  handsome.  It  was  only  last  evening  that  I  met  this  lady 
at  a  soiree  given  by  Mademoiselle  Julie  Caumartin,  coryphee 
distinguee,  in  love  with  young  Rameau." 

"In  love  with  young  Kameau?  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it. 
He  returns  the  love?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  He  seems  very  proud  of  it.  But  a  propos 
of  Madame  Duval,  she  has  been  long  absent  from  Paris, 
just  returned,  and  looking  out  for  conquests.  She  says  she 
has  a  great  penchant  for  the  English;  promises  me  to  be  at 
this  ball.  Come." 

"Hearty  thanks,  my  dear  Lemercier.  I  am  at  your 
service." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  bal  champetre  was  gay  and  brilliant,  as  such  festal 
scenes  are  at  Paris.  A  lovely  night  in  the  midst  of  May, 
lamps  below  and  stars  above;  the  society  mixed,  of  course. 
Evidently,  when  Graham  has  singled  out  Frederic  Lemercier 
from  all  his  acquaintances  at  Paris  to  conjoin  with  the  official 
aid  of  M.  Eenard  in  search  of  the  mysterious  lady,  he  had 


164  THE  PARISIANS. 

conjectured  the  probability  that  she  might  be  found  in  the 
Bohemian  world  so  familiar  to  Frederic ;  if  not  as  an  inhabi- 
tant, at  least  as  an  explorer.  Bohemia  was  largely  represented 
at  the  bal  champetre,  but  not  without  a  fair  sprinkling  of 
what  we  call  the  "respectable  classes,"  especially  English  and 
Americans,  who  brought  their  wives  there  to  take  care  of 
them.  Frenchmen,  not  needing  such  care,  prudently  left 
their  wives  at  home.  Among  the  Frenchmen  of  station  were 
the  Comte  de  Passy  and  the  Vicomte  de  Bre'ze'. 

On  first  entering  the  gardens,  Graham's  eye  was  attracted 
and  dazzled  by  a  brilliant  form.  It  was  standing  under  a 
festoon  of  flowers  extended  from  tree  to  tree,  and  a  gas  jet 
opposite  shone  full  upon  the  face, —  the  face  of  a  girl  in  all 
the  freshness  of  youth.  If  the  freshness  owed  anything  to 
art,  the  art  was  so  well  disguised  that  it  seemed  nature.  The 
beauty  of  the  countenance  was  Hebe-like,  joyous,  and  radiant ; 
and  yet  one  could  not  look  at  the  girl  without  a  sentiment  of 
deep  mournfulness.  She  was  surrounded  by  a  group  of  young 
men,  and  the  ring  of  her  laugh  jarred  upon  Graham's  ear. 
He  pressed  Frederic's  arm,  and  directing  his  attention  to  the 
girl,  asked  who  she  was. 

"Who?  Don't  you  know?  That  is  Julie  Caumartin.  A 
little  while  ago  her  equipage  was  the  most  admired  in  the 
Bois,  and  great  ladies  condescended  to  copy  her  dress  or  her 
coiffure ;  but  she  has  lost  her  splendour,  and  dismissed  the 
rich  admirer  who  supplied  the  fuel  for  its  blaze,  since  she 
fell  in  love  with  Gustave  Rameau.  Doubtless  she  is  expect- 
ing him  to-night.  You  ought  to  know  her;  shall  I  present 
you?  " 

"  No, "  answered  Graham,  with  a  compassionate  expression 
in  his  manly  face.  "So  young;  seemingly  so  gay.  How  I 
pity  her !  " 

"What!  for  throwing  herself  away  on  Rameau?  True. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  good  in  that  girl's  nature,  if  she  had 
been  properly  trained.  Rameau  wrote  a  pretty  poem  on  her 
which  turned  her  head  and  won  her  heart,  in  which  she  is 
styled  the  '  Ondine  of  Paris, '  —  a  nymph-like  type  of  Paris 
itself." 


THE  PARISIANS.  165 

"Vanishing  type,  like  her  namesake;  born  of  the  spray, 
and  vanishing  soon  into  the  deep,"  said  Graham.  "Pray  go 
and  look  for  the  Duval;  you  will  find  me  seated  yonder." 

Graham  passed  into  a  retired  alley,  and  threw  himself 
on  a  solitary  bench,  while  Lemercier  went  in  search  of 
Madame  Duval.  In  a  few  minutes  the  Frenchman  reap- 
peared. By  his  side  was  a  lady  well  dressed,  and  as  she 
passed  under  the  lamps  Graham  perceived  that,  though  of 
a  certain  age,  she  was  undeniably  handsome.  His  heart 
beat  more  quickly.  Surely  this  was  the  Louise  Duval  he 
sought. 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  was  presented  in  due  form  to 
the  lady,  with  whom  Frederic  then  discreetly  left  him. 

"  M.  Lemercier  tells  me  that  you  think  that  we  were  once 
acquainted  with  each  other." 

"Nay,  Madame;  I  should  not  fail  to  recognize  you  were 
that  the  case.  A  friend  of  mine  had  the  honour  of  knowing 
a  lady  of  your  name;  and  should  I  be  fortunate  enough  to 
meet  that  lady,  I  am  charged  with  a  commission  that  may  not 
be  unwelcome  to  her.  M.  Lemercier  tells  me  your  nom  de 
bapteme  is  Louise." 

"Louise  Corinne,  Monsieur." 

"And  I  presume  that  Duval  is  the  name  you  take  from 
your  parents?  " 

"No;  my  father's  name  was  Bernard.  I  married,  when  I 
was  a  mere  child,  M.  Duval,  in  the  wine  trade  at  Bordeaux." 

"  Ah,  indeed ! "  said  Graham,  much  disappointed,  but 
looking  at  her  with  a  keen,  searching  eye,  which  she  met 
with  a  decided  frankness.  Evidently,  in  his  judgment,  she 
was  speaking  the  truth. 

"You  know  English,  I  think,  Madame,"  he  resumed,  ad- 
dressing her  in  that  language. 

"Aleetle;  speak  un  peu." 

"Only  a  little?" 

Madame  Duval  looked  puzzled,  and  replied  in  French, 
with  a  laugh,  "  Is  it  that  you  were  told  that  I  spoke  English 
by  your  countryman,  Milord  Sare  Boulbj7?  Petit  scelerat,  I 
hope  he  is  well.  He  sends  you  a  commission  for  me, —  so  he 
ought;  he  behaved  to  me  like  a  monster." 


166  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  Alas !  I  know  nothing  of  Milord  Sir  Boulby.  Were  you 
never  in  England  yourself?  " 

"Never,"  with  a  coquettish  side-glance;  "I  should  like  so 
much  to  go.  I  have  a  foible  for  the  English  in  spite  of  that 
vilain  petit  Boulby.  Who  is  it  gave  you  the  commission  for 
me?  Ha!  I  guess,  le  Capitaine  Nelton." 

"No.  What  year,  Madame,  if  not  impertinent,  were  you 
at  Aix-la-Chapelle?" 

"  You  mean  Baden?  I  was  there  seven  years  ago,  when  I 
met  le  Capitaine  Nelton,  bel  homme  aux  cheveux  rouges." 

"But  you  have  been  at  Aix?" 

"Never." 

"  I  have,  then,  been  mistaken,  Madame,  and  have  only  to 
offer  my  most  humble  apologies." 

"  But  perhaps  you  will  favour  me  with  a  visit,  and  we  may 
on  further  conversation  find  that  you  are  not  mistaken.  I 
can't  stay  now,  for  I  am  engaged  to  dance  with  the  Belgian 
of  whom,  no  doubt,  M.  Lemercier  has  told  you." 

"No,  Madame,  he  has  not." 

"  Well,  then,  he  will  tell  you.  The  Belgian  is  very  jealous ; 
but  I  am  always  at  home  between  three  and  four;  this  is  my 
card." 

Graham  eagerly  took  the  card,  and  exclaimed,  "  Is  this  your 
your  own  handwriting,  Madame?  " 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"  Tres  Idle  ecriture,"  said  Graham,  and  receded  with  a 
ceremonious  bow.  "Anything  so  unlike  her  handwriting! 
Another  disappointment,"  muttered  the  Englishman  as  the 
lady  went  back  to  the  ball. 

A  few  minutes  later  Graham  joined  Lemercier,  who  was 
talking  with  De  Passy  and  De  Bre'ze'. 

"Well,"  said  Lemercier,  when  his  eye  rested  on  Graham, 
"I  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head  this  time,  eh?  " 

Graham  shook  his  head. 

"What!  is  she  not  the  right  Louise  Duval?  " 

"Certainly  not." 

The  Count  cle  Passy  overheard  the  name,  and  turned. 
"Louise  Duval,"  he  said;  "does  Monsieur  Vane  know  a 
Louise  Duval?  " 


THE  PARISIANS.  167 

"No;  but  a  friend  asked  me  to  inquire  after  a  lady  of  that 
name  whom  he  had  met  many  years  ago  at  Paris."  The 
Count  mused  a  moment,  and  said,  "  Is  it  possible  that  your 
friend  knew  the  family  De  Maule"on?" 

"I  really  can't  say.     What  then?  " 

"The  old  Vicomte  de  Maule"on  was  one  of  my  most  inti- 
mate associates.  In  fact,  our  houses  are  connected.  And  he 
was  extremely  grieved,  poor  man,  when  his  daughter  Louise 
married  her  drawing-master,  Auguste  Duval." 

"Her  drawing-master,  Auguste  Duval?  Pray  say  on.  I 
think  the  Louise  Duval  my  friend  knew  must  have  been  her 
daughter.  She  was  the  only  child  of  a  drawing-master  or 
artist  named  Auguste  Duval,  and  probably  enough  her  Chris- 
tian name  would  have  been  derived  from  her  mother.  A 
Mademoiselle  de  Maule"on,  then,  married  M.  Auguste  Duval?" 

"Yes;  the  old  Vicomte  had  espoused  en  premieres  noces 
Mademoiselle  Camille  de  Chavigny,  a  lady  of  birth  equal  to 
his  own ;  had  by  her  one  daughter,  Louise.  I  recollect  her 
well, —  a  plain  girl,  with  a  high  nose  and  a  sour  expression. 
She  was  just  of  age  when  the  first  Vicomtesse  died,  and  by 
the  marriage  settlement  she  succeeded  at  once  to  her  mother's 
fortune,  which  was  not  large.  The  Vicomte  was,  however,  so 
poor  that  the  loss  of  that  income  was  no  trifle  to  him.  Though 
much  past  fifty,  he  was  still  very  handsome.  Men  of  that 
generation  did  not  age  soon,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Count,  ex- 
panding his  fine  chest  and  laughing  exultingly. 

"He  married,  en  secondes  noces,  a  lady  of  still  higher  birth 
than  the  first,  and  with  a  much  larger  dot.  Louise  was  indig- 
nant at  this,  hated  her  stepmother;  and  when  a  son  was  born 
by  the  second  marriage  she  left  the  paternal  roof,  went  to  re- 
side with  an  old  female  relative  near  the  Luxembourg,  and 
there  married  this  drawing-master.  Her  father  and  the 
family  did  all  they  could  to  prevent  it;  but  in  these  demo- 
cratic days  a  woman  who  has  attained  her  majority  can,  if 
she  persist  in  her  determination,  marry  to  please  herself  and 
disgrace  her  ancestors.  After  that  mesalliance  her  father 
never  would  see  her  again.  I  tried  in  vain  to  soften  him. 
All  his  parental  affections  settled  on  his  handsome  Victor. 


168  THE  PARISIANS. 

Ah !  you  are  too  young  to  have  known  Victor  de  Maule'on 
during  his  short  reign  at  Paris,  as  roi  des  viveurs." 

"  Yes,  he  was  before  my  time ;  but  I  have  heard  of  him  as 
a  young  man  of  great  fashion ;  said  to  be  very  clever,  a  duel- 
list, and  a  sort  of  Don  Juan." 

"Exactly." 

"  And  then  I  remember  vaguely  to  have  heard  that  he  com- 
mitted, or  was  said  to  have  committed,  some  villanous  action 
connected  with  a  great  lady's  jewels,  and  to  have  left  Paris 
in  consequence." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  a  sad  scrape.  At  that  time  there  was  a  political 
crisis;  we  were  under  a  Republic;  anything  against  a  noble 
was  believed.  But  I  am  sure  Victor  de  Maule'on  was  not  the 
man  to  commit  a  larceny.  However,  it  is  quite  true  that  he 
left  Paris,  and  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  him  since." 
Here  he  touched  De  Bre"ze",  who,  though  still  near,  had  not 
been  listening  to  this  conversation,  but  interchanging  jest 
and  laughter  with  Lemercier  on  the  motley  scene  of  the 
dance. 

"  De  Bre'ze',  have  you  ever  heard  what  became  of  poor  dear 
Victor  de  Maule'on?  —  you  knew  him." 

"Knew  him?  I  should  think  so.  Who  could  be  in  the 
great  world  and  not  know  le  beau  Victor?  No;  after  he  van- 
ished I  never  heard  more  of  him ;  doubtless  long  since  dead. 
A  good-hearted  fellow  in  spite  of  all  his  sins." 

"My  dear  Monsieur  de  Bre'ze',  did  you  know  his  half- 
sister?"  asked  Graham, —  "a  Madame  Duval?" 

"No.  I  never  heard  he  had  a  half-sister.  Halt  there;  I 
recollect  that  I  met  Victor  once,  in  the  garden  at  Versailles, 
walking  arm-in-arm  with  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  ever  saw; 
and  when  I  complimented  him  afterwards  at  the  Jockey  Club 
on  his  new  conquest,  he  replied  very  gravely  that  the  young 
lady  was  his  niece.  'Niece!'  said  I;  'why,  there  can't  be 
more  than  five  or  six  years  between  you.'  '  About  that,  I 
suppose, '  said  he ;  '  my  half-sister,  her  mother,  was  more 
than  twenty  years  older  than  I  at  the  time  of  my  birth. '  I 
doubted  the  truth  of  his  story  at  the  time;  but  since  you 
say  he  really  had  a  sister,  my  doubt  wronged  him." 


THE  PARISIANS.  169 

"Have  you  never  seen  that  same  young  lady  since?  " 

"Never." 

"How  many  years  ago  was  this?  " 

"Let  me  see,  about  twenty  or  twenty-one  years  ago.  How 
time  flies !  " 

Graham  still  continued  to  question,  but  could  learn  no  fur- 
ther particulars.  He  turned  to  quit  the  gardens  just  as  the 
band  was  striking  up  for  a  fresh  dance,  a  wild  German  waltz 
air;  and  mingled  with  that  German  music  his  ear  caught  the 
sprightly  sounds  of  the  French  laugh,  one  laugh  distinguished 
from  the  rest  by  a  more  genuine  ring  of  light-hearted  joy, — 
the  laugh  that  he  had  heard  on  entering  the  gardens,  and  the 
sound  of  which  had  then  saddened  him.  Looking  towards  the 
quarter  from  which  it  came,  he  again  saw  the  "Ondine  of 
Paris."  She  was  not  now  the  centre  of  a  group.  She  had 
just  found  Gustave  Rameau,  and  was  clinging  to  his  arm  with 
a  look  of  happiness  in  her  face,  frank  and  innocent  as  a  child's; 
and  so  they  passed  amid  the  dancers  down  a  solitary  lamplit 
alley,  till  lost  to  the  Englishman's  lingering  gaze. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  next  morning  Graham  sent  again  for  M.  Renard. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  when  that  dignitary  appeared  and  took  a 
seat  beside  him,  "chance  has  favoured  me." 

"  I  always  counted  on  chance,  Monsieur.  Chance  has  more 
wit  in  its  little  finger  than  the  Paris  police  in  its  whole 
body." 

"  I  have  ascertained  the  relations,  on  the  mother's  side,  of 
Louise  Duval,  and  the  only  question  is  how  to  get  at  them." 

Here  Graham  related  what  he  had  heard,  and  ended  by 
saying,  "This  Victor  de  Maule'on  is  therefore  my  Louise 
Duval's  uncle.  He  was,  no  doubt,  taking  charge  of  her  in 
the  year  that  the  persons  interested  in  her  discovery  lost  sight 


170  THE  PARISIANS. 

of  her  in  Paris ;  and  surely  he  must  know  what  became  of  her 
afterwards." 

"Very  probably;  and  chance  may  befriend  us  yet  in  the 
discovery  of  Victor  de  Maule'on.  You  seem  not  to  know  the 
particulars  of  that  story  about  the  jewels  which  brought 
him  into  some  connection  with  the  police,  and  resulted  in 
his  disappearance  from  Paris." 

"No;  tell  me  the  particulars." 

"Victor  de  Maule'on  was  heir  to  some  60,000  or  70,000 
francs  a  year,  chiefly  on  the  mother's  side;  for  his  father, 
though  the  representative  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  houses 
in  Normandy,  was  very  poor,  having  little  of  his  own  except 
the  emoluments  of  an  appointment  in  the  Court  of  Louis 
Philippe. 

"But  before,  by  the  death  of  his  parents,  Victor  came  into 
that  inheritance,  he  very  largely  forestalled  it.  His  tastes 
were  magnificent.  He  took  to  '  sport,'  kept  a  famous  stud, 
was  a  great  favourite  with  the  English,  and  spoke  their  lan- 
guage fluently.  Indeed  he  was  considered  very  accomplished, 
and  of  considerable  intellectual  powers.  It  was  generally 
said  that  some  day  or  other,  when  he  had  sown  his  wild  oats, 
he  would,  if  he  took  to  politics,  be  an  eminent  man.  Alto- 
gether he  was  a  very  strong  creature.  That  was  a  very 
strong  age  under  Louis  Philippe.  The  viveurs  of  Paris  were 
fine  types  for  the  heroes  of  Dumas  and  Sue, —  full  of  animal 
life  and  spirits.  Victor  de  Maule'on  was  a  romance  of  Dumas, 
incarnated." 

"Monsieur  Eenard,  forgive  me  that  I  did  not  before  do 
justice  to  your  taste  in  polite  literature." 

"Monsieur,  a  man  in  my  profession  does  not  attain  even  to 
my  humble  eminence  if  he  be  not  something  else  than  a  pro- 
fessional. He  must  study  mankind  wherever  they  are  de- 
scribed, even  in  les  romans.  To  return  to  Victor  de  Maule'on. 
Though  he  was  a  '  sportman, '  a  gambler,  a  Don  Juan,  a  duel- 
list, nothing  was  ever  said  against  his  honour.  On  the  con- 
trary, on  matters  of  honour  he  was  a  received  oracle;  and 
even  though  he  had  fought  several  duels  (that  was  the  age  of 
duels),  and  was  reported  without  a  superior,  almost  without 


THE  PARISIANS.  171 

an  equal,  in  either  weapon,  the  sword  or  the  pistol,  he  is 
said  never  to  have  wantonly  provoked  an  encounter,  and  to 
have  so  used  his  skill  that  he  contrived  never  to  slay,  nor 
even  gravely  to  wound,  an  antagonist. 

I  remember  one  instance  of  his  generosity  in  this  respect, 
for  it  was  much  talked  of  at  the  time.  One  of  your  country- 
men, who  had  never  handled  a  fencing-foil  nor  fired  a  pistol, 
took  offence  at  something  M.  de  Maule"on  had  said  in  dispar- 
agement of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  called  him  out. 
Victor  de  Maule"on  accepted  the  challenge,  discharged  his 
pistol,  not  in  the  air  —  that  might  have  been  an  affront — 
but  so  as  to  be  wide  of  the  mark,  walked  up  to  the  lines  to 
be  shot  at,  and  when  missed,  said,  '  Excuse  the  susceptibility 
of  a  Frenchman  loath  to  believe  that  his  countryman  can  be 
beaten  save  by  accident,  and  accept  every  apology  one  gentle- 
man can  make  to  another  for  having  forgotten  the  respect  due 
to  one  of  the  most  renowned  of  your  national  heroes.'  The 
Englishman's  name  was  Vane.  Could  it  have  been  your 
father?" 

"  Very  probably ;  just  like  my  father  to  call  out  any  man 
who  insulted  the  honour  of  his  country,  as  represented  by  its 
men.  I  hope  the  two  combatants  became  friends?" 

"  That  I  never  heard ;  the  duel  was  over ;  there  my  story- 
ends." 

"Pray  go  on." 

"  One  day  —  it  was  in  the  midst  of  political  events  which 
would  have  silenced  most  subjects  of  private  gossip  —  the 
beau  monde  was  startled  by  the  news  that  the  Vicomte  (he 
was  then,  by  his  father's  death,  Vicomte)  de  Maule"on  had 
been  given  into  the  custody  of  the  police  on  the  charge  of 

stealing  the  jewels  of  the  Duchesse  de  (the  wife  of  a 

distinguished  foreigner).  It  seems  that  some  days  before 
this  event,  the  Due,  wishing  to  make  Madame  his  spouse  an 
agreeable  surprise,  had  resolved  to  have  a  diamond  necklace 
belonging  to  her,  and  which  was  of  setting  so  old-fashioned 
that  she  had  not  lately  worn  it,  reset  for  her  birthday.  He 
therefore  secretly  possessed  himself  of  the  key  to  an  iron  safe 
in  a  cabinet  adjoining  her  dressing-room  (in  which  safe  her 


172  THE  PARISIANS. 

more  valuable  jewels  were  kept),  and  took  from  it  the  neck- 
lace. Imagine  his  dismay  when  the  jeweller  in  the  Rue 
Vivienne  to  whom  he  carried  it  recognized  the  pretended 
diamonds  as  imitation  paste  which  he  himself  had  some  days 
previously  inserted  into  an  empty  setting  brought  to  him  by 
a  Monsieur  with  whose  name  he  was  unacquainted.  The  Duch- 
esse  was  at  that  time  in  delicate  health;  and  as  the  Due's 
suspicions  naturally  fell  on  the  servants,  especially  on  the 
femme  de  ckambre,  who  was  in  great  favour  with  his  wife,  he 
did  not  like  to  alarm  Madame,  nor  through  her  to  put  the  ser- 
vants on  their  guard.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to  place  the 

matter  in  the  hands  of  the  famous ,  who  was  then  the 

pride  and  ornament  of  the  Parisian  police.  And  the  very 
night  afterwards  the  Vicomte  de  Maul£on  was  caught  and 
apprehended  in  the  cabinet  where  the  jewels  were  kept,  and 
to  which  he  had  got  access  by  a  false  key,  or  at  least  a  du- 
plicate key,  found  in  his  possession.  I  should  observe  that 
M.  de  Maul£on  occupied  the  entresol  m  the  same  hotel  in 
which  the  upper  rooms  were  devoted  to  the  Due  and  Duch- 
esse  and  their  suite.  As  soon  as  this  charge  against  the 
Vicomte  was  made  known  (and  it  was  known  the  next  morn- 
ing), the  extent  of  his  debts  and  the  utterness  of  his  ruin 
(before  scarcely  conjectured  or  wholly  unheeded)  became 
public  through  the  medium  of  the  journals,  and  furnished  an 
obvious  motive  for  the  crime  of  which  he  was  accused.  We 
Parisians,  Monsieur,  are  subject  to  the  most  startling  re- 
actions of  feeling.  The  men  we  adore  one  day  we  execrate 
the  next.  The  Vicomte  passed  at  once  from  the  popular  ad- 
miration one  bestows  on  a  hero  to  the  popular  contempt  with 
which  one  regards  a  petty  larcener.  Society  wondered  how 
it  had  ever  condescended  to  receive  into  its  bosom  the  gambler, 
the  duellist,  the  Don  Juan.  However,  one  compensation  in 
the  way  of  amusement  he  might  still  afford  to  society  for  the 
grave  injuries  he  had  done  it.  Society  would  attend  his  trial, 
witness  his  demeanour  at  the  bar,  and  watch  the  expression 
of  his  face  when  he  was  sentenced  to  the  galleys.  But,  Mon- 
sieur, this  wretch  completed  the  measure  of  his  iniquities. 
He  was  not  tried  at  all.  The  Due  and  Duchesse  quitted  Paris 


THE  PARISIANS.  173 

for  Spain,  and  the  Due  instructed  his  lawyer  to  withdraw  his 
charge,  stating  his  conviction  of  the  Vicomte's  complete  in- 
nocence of  any  other  offence  than  that  which  he  himself  had 
confessed." 

"What  did  the  Vicomte  confess?  You  omitted  to  state 
that." 

"  The  Vicomte,  when  apprehended,  confessed  that,  smitten 
by  an  insane  passion  for  the  Duchesse,  which  she  had,  on  his 
presuming  to  declare  it,  met  with  indignant  scorn,  he  had 
taken  advantage  of  his  lodgment  in  the  same  house  to  ad- 
mit himself  into  the  cabinet  adjoining  her  dressing-room  by 
means  of  a  key  which  he  had  procured,  made  from  an  impres- 
sion of  the  key -hole  taken  in  wax. 

"No  evidence  in  support  of  any  other  charge  against  the 
Vicomte  was  forthcoming, —  nothing,  in  short,  beyond  the 
infraction  du  domicile  caused  by  the  madness  of  youthful 
love,  and  for  which  there  was  no  prosecution.  The  law, 
therefore,  could  have  little  to  say  against  him.  But  society 
was  more  rigid;  and  exceedingly  angry  to  find  that  a  man 
who  had  been  so  conspicuous  for  luxury  should  prove  to  be  a 
pauper,  insisted  on  believing  that  M.  de  Maule"on  was  guilty 
of  the  meaner,  though  not  perhaps,  in  the  eyes  of  husbands 
and  fathers,  the  more  heinous,  of  the  two  offences.  I  pre- 
sume that  the  Vicomte  felt  that  he  had  got  into  a  dilemma 
from  which  no  pistol-shot  or  sword-thrust  could  free  him,  for 
he  left  Paris  abruptly,  and  has  not  since  reappeared.  The 
sale  of  his  stud  and  effects  sufficed,  I  believe,  to  pay  his 
debts,  for  I  will  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  they  were 
paid." 

"But  though  the  Vicomte  de  Maul^on  has  disappeared, 
he  must  have  left  relations  at  Paris,  who  would  perhaps 
know  what  has  become  of  him  and  of  his  niece." 

"I  doubt  it.  He  had  no  very  near  relations.  The  nearest 
was  an  old  ctlibataire  of  the  same  name,  from  whom  he 
had  some  expectations,  but  who  died  shortly  after  this  es- 
clandre,  and  did  not  name  the  Vicomte  in  his  will.  M. 
Victor  had  numerous  connections  among  the  highest  families, 


174  THE  PARISIANS. 

the  Kochebriants,  Chavignys,  Vandemars,  Passys,  Beauvil- 
liers;  but  they  are  not  likely  to  have  retained  any  connec- 
tion with  a  ruined  vaurien,  and  still  less  with  a  niece  of  his 
who  was  the  child  of  a  drawing-master.  But  now  you  have 
given  me  a  clew,  I  will  try  to  follow  it  up.  We  must  find  the 
Vicomte,  and  I  am  not  without  hope  of  doing  so.  Pardon  me 
if  I  decline  to  say  more  at  present.  I  would  not  raise  false 
expectations ;  but  in  a  week  or  two  I  will  have  the  honour  to 
call  again  upon  Monsieur." 

"  Wait  one  instant.  You  have  really  a  hope  of  discovering 
M.  deMauleon?" 

"Yes.     I  cannot  say  more  at  present." 

M.  Eenard  departed.  Still  that  hope,  however  faint  it 
might  prove,  served  to  reanimate  Graham;  and  with  that 
hope  his  heart,  as  if  a  load  had  been  lifted  from  its  main- 
spring, returned  instinctively  to  the  thought  of  Isaura. 
Whatever  seemed  to  promise  an  early  discharge  of  the  com- 
mission connected  with  the  discovery  of  Louise  Duval  seemed 
to  bring  Isaura  nearer  to  him,  or  at  least  to  excuse  his  yearn- 
ing desire  to  see  more  of  her,  to  understand  her  better. 
Faded  into  thin  air  was  the  vague  jealousy  of  Gustave 
Kameau  which  he  had  so  unreasonably  conceived;  he  felt 
as  if  it  were  impossible  that  the  man  whom  the  "  Ondine  of 
Paris"  claimed  as  her  lover  could  dare  to  woo  or  hope  to  win 
an  Isaura.  He  even  forgot  the  friendship  with  the  eloquent 
denouncer  of  the  marriage-bond,  which  a  little  while  ago  had 
seemed  to  him  an  unpardonable  offence.  He  remembered 
only  the  lovely  face,  so  innocent,  yet  so  intelligent;  only  the 
sweet  voice,  which  had  for  the  first  time  breathed  music  into 
his  own  soul ;  only  the  gentle  hand,  whose  touch  had  for  the 
first  time  sent  through  his  veins  the  thrill  which  distinguishes 
from  all  her  sex  the  woman  whom  we  love.  He  went  forth 
elated  and  joyous,  and  took  his  way  to  Isaura' s  villa.  As 
he  went,  the  leaves  on  the  trees  under  which  he  passed 
seemed  stirred  by  the  soft  May  breeze  in  sympathy  with 
his  own  delight.  Perhaps  it  was  rather  the  reverse :  his 
own  silent  delight  sympathized  with  all  delight  in  awaken- 


THE  PARISIANS.  175 

ing  Nature.  The  lover  seeking  reconciliation  with  the  loved 
one  from  whom  some  trifle  has  unreasonably  estranged  him, 
in  a  cloudless  day  of  May, —  if  he  be  not  happy  enough  to 
feel  a  brotherhood  in  all  things  happy, —  a  leaf  in  bloom,  a 
bird  in  song, —  then  indeed  he  may  call  himself  lover,  but 
he  does  not  know  what  is  love. 


BOOK    IV. 

CHAPTER  I. 
FROM  ISAURA  CICOGNA  TO  MADAME  DE  GRANTMESNIL. 

IT  is  many  days  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and  but  for  your 
delightful  note  just  received,  reproaching  rne  for  silence,  I 
should  still  be  under  the  spell  of  that  awe  which  certain 
words  of  M.  Savarin  were  well  fitted  to  produce.  Chancing 
to  ask  him  if  he  had  written  to  you  lately,  he  said,  with  that 
laugh  of  his,  good-humouredly  ironical,  "No,  Mademoiselle, 
I  am  not  one  of  the  Fdcheux  whom  Moliere  has  immortalized. 
If  the  meeting  of  lovers  should  be  sacred  from  the  intrusion 
of  a  third  person,  however  amiable,  more  sacred  still  should 
be  the  parting  between  an  author  and  his  work.  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil  is  in  that  moment  so  solemn  to  a  genius  earnest 
as  hers, —  she  is  bidding  farewell  to  a  companion  with  whom, 
once  dismissed  into  the  wbrld,  she  can  never  converse  famil- 
iarly again;  it  ceases  to  be  her  companion  when  it  becomes 
ours.  Do  not  let  us  disturb  the  last  hours  they  will  pass 
together." 

These  words  struck  me  much.  I  suppose  there  is  truth  in 
them.  I  can  comprehend  that  a  work  which  has  long  been  all 
in  all  to  its  author,  concentrating  his  thoughts,  gathering  round 
it  the  hopes  and  fears  of  his  inmost  heart,  dies,  as  it  were,  to 
him  when  he  has  completed  its  life  for  others,  and  launched 
it  into  a  world  estranged  from  the  solitude  in  which  it  was 
born  and  formed.  I  can  almost  conceive  that,  to  a  writer 
like  you,  the  very  fame  which  attends  the  work  thus  sent 


THE   PARISIANS.  177 

forth  chills  your  own  love  for  it.  The  characters  you  created 
in  a  fairyland,  known  but  to  yourself,  must  lose  something  of 
their  mysterious  charm  when  you  hear  them  discussed  and 
cavilled  at,  blamed  or  praised,  as  if  they  were  really  the  crea- 
tures of  streets  and  salons. 

I  wonder  if  hostile  criticism  pains  or  enrages  you  as  it 
seems  to  do  such  other  authors  as  I  have  known.  M.  Savarin, 
for  instance,  sets  down  in  his  tablets  as  an  enemy  to  whom 
vengeance  is  due  the  smallest  scribbler  who  wounds  his  self- 
love,  and  says  frankly,  "To  me  praise  is  food,  dispraise  is 
poison.  Him  who  feeds  me  I  pay;  him  who  poisons  me  I 
break  on  the  wheel."  M.  Savarin  is,  indeed,  a  skilful  and 
energetic  administrator  to  his  own  reputation.  He  deals  with 
it  as  if  it  were  a  kingdom, —  establishes  fortifications  for  its 
defence,  enlists  soldiers  to  fight  for  it.  He  is  the  soul  and 
centre  of  a  confederation  in  which  each  is  bound  to  defend 
the  territory  of  the  others,  and  all  those  territories  united 
constitute  the  imperial  realm  of  M.  Savarin.  Don't  think  me 
an  ungracious  satirist  in  what  I  am  thus  saying  of  our  bril- 
liant friend.  It  is  not  I  who  here  speak;  it  is  himself.  He 
avows  his  policy  with  the  ndiveti  which  makes  the  charm  of 
his  style  as  writer.  "It  is  the  greatest  mistake,"  he  said  to 
me  yesterday,  "to  talk  of  the  Republic  of  Letters.  Every 
author  who  wins  a  name  is  a  sovereign  in  his  own  domain, 
be  it  large  or  small.  Woe  to  any  republican  who  wants  to  de- 
throne me!  "  Somehow  or  other,  when  M.  Savarin  thus  talks 
I  feel  as  if  he  were  betraying  the  cause  of  genius.  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  regard  literature  as  a  craft, —  to  me  it  is  a 
sacred  mission ;  and  in  hearing  this  "  sovereign  "  boast  of  the 
tricks  by  which  he  maintains  his  state,  I  seem  to  listen  to  a 
priest  who  treats  as  imposture  the  religion  he  professes  to 
teach.  M.  Savarin's  favourite  eleve  now  is  a  young  contribu- 
tor to  his  journal,  named  Gustave  Eameau.  M.  Savarin  said 
the  other  day  in  my  hearing,  "I  and  my  set  were  Young 
France;  Gustave  Eameau  and  his  set  are  New  Paris." 

"And  what  is  the  distinction  between  the  one  and  the 
other? "  asked  my  American  friend,  Mrs.  Morley. 

"  The  set  of  '  Young  France, '  "  answered  M.  Savarin,  "  had 

VOL.  I.  —  12 


178  THE  PARISIANS. 

in  it  the  hearty  consciousness  of  youth ;  it  was  bold  and  vehe- 
ment, with  abundant  vitality  and  animal  spirits;  whatever 
may  be  said  against  it  in  other  respects,  the  power  of  thews 
and  sinews  must  be  conceded  to  its  chief  representatives. 
But  the  set  of  '  New  Paris '  has  very  bad  health,  and  very  in- 
different spirits.  Still,  in  its  way,  it  is  very  clever;  it  can 
sting  and  bite  as  keenly  as  if  it  were  big  and  strong.  Rameau 
is  the  most  promising  member  of  the  set.  He  will  be  popu- 
lar in  his  time,  because  he  represents  a  good  deal  of  the  mind 
of  his  time,  —  namely,  the  mind  and  the  time  of  '  New 
Paris.'" 

Do  you  know  anything  of  this  young  Rameau's  writings? 
You  do  not  know  himself,  for  he  told  me  so,  expressing  a  de- 
sire, that  was  evidently  very  sincere,  to  find  some  occasion  on 
which  to  render  you  his  homage.  He  said  this  the  first  time 
I  met  him  at  M.  Savarin's,  and  before  he  knew  how  dear  to 
me  are  yourself  and  your  fame.  He  came  and  sat  by  me 
after  dinner,  and  won  my  interest  at  once  by  asking  me  if  I 
had  heard  that  you  were  busied  on  a  new  work;  and  then, 
without  waiting  for  my  answer,  he  launched  forth  into  praises 
of  you,  which  made  a  notable  contrast  to  the  scorn  with  which 
he  spoke  of  all  your  contemporaries, —  except  indeed  M.  Sava- 
rin,  who,  however,  might  not  have  been  pleased  to  hear  his 
favourite  pupil  style  him  "a  great  writer  in  small  things."  I 
spare  you  his  epigrams  on  Dumas  and  Victor  Hugo  and  my 
beloved  Lamartine.  Though  his  talk  was  showy,  and  dazzled 
me  at  first,  I  soon  got  rather  tired  of  it,  even  the  first  time  we 
met.  Since  then  I  have  seen  him  very  often,  not  only  at  M. 
Savarin's,  but  he  calls  here  at  least  every  other  day,  and  we 
have  become  quite  good  friends.  He  gains  on  acquaintance  so 
far  that  one  cannot  help  feeling  how  much  he  is  to  be  pitied. 
He  is  so  envious!  and  the  envious  must  be  so  unhappy. 
And  then  he  is  at  once  so  near  and  so  far  from  all  the  things 
that  he  envies.  He  longs  for  riches  and  luxury,  and  can  only 
as  yet  earn  a  bare  competence  by  his  labours.  Therefore  he 
hates  the  rich  and  luxurious.  His  literary  successes,  instead 
of  pleasing  him,  render  him  miserable  by  their  contrast  with 
the  fame  of  the  authors  whom  he  envies  and  assails.  He  has 


THE  PARISI AXS.  179 

a  beautiful  head,  of  which  he  is  conscious,  but  it  is  joined 
to  a  body  without  strength  or  grace.  He  is  conscious  of  this 
too,  —  but  it  is  cruel  to  go  on  with  this  sketch.  You  can 
see  at  once  the  kind  of  person  who,  whether  he  inspire  affec- 
tion or  dislike,  cannot  fail  to  create  an  interest,  painful  but 
compassionate. 

You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  Dr.  C.  considers  my 
health  so  improved  that  I  may  next  year  enter  fairly  on  the 
profession  for  which  I  was  intended  and  trained.  Yet  I  still 
feel  hesitating  and  doubtful.  To  give  myself  wholly  up  to 
the  art  in  which  I  am  told  I  could  excel  must  alienate  me 
entirely  from  the  ambition  that  yearns  for  fields  in  which, 
alas!  it  may  perhaps  never  appropriate  to  itself  a  rood  for 
culture, —  only  wander,  lost  in  a  vague  fairyland,  to  which  it 
has  not  the  fairy's  birthright.  0  thou  great  Enchantress,  to 
whom  are  equally  subject  the  streets  of  Paris  and  the  realm 
of  Faerie,  thou  who  hast  sounded  to  the  deeps  that  circumflu- 
ent ocean  called  "practical  human  life,"  and  hast  taught  the 
acutest  of  its  navigators  to  consider  how  far  its  courses  are 
guided  by  orbs  in  heaven, —  canst  thou  solve  this  riddle 
which,  if  it  perplexes  me,  must  perplex  so  many?  What  is 
the  real  distinction  between  the  rare  genius  and  the  com- 
monalty of  human  souls  that  feel  to  the  quick  all  the  grand- 
est and  divinest  things  which  the  rare  genius  places  before 
them,  sighing  within  themselves,  "This  rare  genius  does  but 
express  that  which  was  previously  familiar  to  us,  so  far  as 
thought  and  sentiment  extend  "  ?  Nay,  the  genius  itself, 
however  eloquent,  never  does,  never  can,  express  the  whole 
of  the  thought  or  the  sentiment  it  interprets;  on  the  contrary, 
the  greater  the  genius  is,  the  more  it  leaves  a  something  of 
incomplete  satisfaction  on  our  minds, —  it  promises  so  much 
more  than  it  performs ;  it  implies  so  much  more  than  it  an- 
nounces. I  am  impressed  with  the  truth  of  what  I  thus  say 
in  proportion  as  I  re-peruse  and  re-study  the  greatest  writers 
that  have  come  within  my  narrow  range  of  reading;  and  by 
the  greatest  writers  I  mean  those  who  are  not  exclusively 
reasoners  (of  such  I  cannot  judge),  nor  mere  poets  (of  whom, 
so  far  as  concerns  the  union  of  words  with  music,  I  ought  to 


180  THE  PARISIANS. 

be  able  to  judge),  but  the  few  who  unite  reason  and  poetry, 
and  appeal  at  once  to  the  common-sense  of  the  multitude  and 
the  imagination  of  the  few.  The  highest  type  of  this  union 
to  me  is  Shakspeare ;  and  I  can  comprehend  the  justice  of  no 
criticism  on  him  which  does  not  allow  this  sense  of  incom- 
plete satisfaction  augmenting  in  proportion  as  the  poet  soars 
to  his  highest.  I  ask  again,  In  what  consists  this  distinction 
between  the  rare  genius  and  the  commonalty  of  minds  that 
exclaim,  "  He  expresses  what  we  feel,  but  never  the  whole  of 
what  we  feel"?  Is  it  the  mere  power  over  language,  a  larger 
knowledge  of  dictionaries,  a  finer  ear  for  period  and  cadence, 
a  more  artistic  craft  in  casing  our  thoughts  and  sentiments  in 
well-selected  words?  Is  it  true  what  Buffon  says,  "that  the 
style  is  the  man"?  Is  it  true  what  I  am  told  Goethe  said, 
"Poetry  is  form"?  I  cannot  believe  this;  and  if  you  tell  me 
it  is  true,  then  I  no  longer  pine  to  be  a  writer.  But  if  it  be 
not  true,  explain  to  me  how  it  is  that  the  greatest  genius  is 
popular  in  proportion  as  it  makes  itself  akin  to  us  by  uttering 
in  better  words  than  we  employ  that  which  was  already  within 
us,  brings  to  light  what  in  our  souls  was  latent,  and  does  but 
correct,  beautify,  and  publish  the  correspondence  which  an 
ordinary  reader  carries  on  privately  every  day  between  him- 
self and  his  mind  or  his  heart.  If  this  superiority  in  the 
genius  be  but  style  and  form,  I  abandon  my  dream  of  being 
something  else  than  a  singer  of  words  by  another  to  the  music 
of  another.  But  then,  what  then?  My  knowledge  of  books 
and  art  is  wonderfully  small.  What  little  I  do  know  I  gather 
from  very  few  books  and  from  what  I  hear  said  by  the  few 
worth  listening  to  whom  I  happen  to  meet;  and  out  of  these, 
in  solitude  and  revery,  not  by  conscious  effort,  I  arrive  at 
some  results  which  appear  to  my  inexperience  original.  Per- 
haps, indeed,  they  have  the  same  kind  of  originality  as  the 
musical  compositions  of  amateurs  who  effect  a  cantata  or  a 
quartette  made  up  of  borrowed  details  from  great  masters, 
and  constituting  a  whole  so  original  that  no  real  master  would 
deign  to  own  it.  Oh,  if  I  could  get  you  to  understand  how 
unsettled,  how  struggling  my  whole  nature  at  this  moment  is! 
I  wonder  what  is  the  sensation  of  the  chrysalis  which  has 


THE  PARISIANS.  181 

been  a  silkworm,  when  it  first  feels  the  new  wings  stirring 
within  its  shell, —  wings,  alas!  they  are  but  those  of  the  hum- 
blest and  shortest-lived  sort  of  moth,  scarcely  born  into  day- 
light before  it  dies.  Could  it  reason,  it  might  regret  its 
earlier  life,  and  say,  "Better  be  the  silkworm  than  the 
moth." 


FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Have  you  known  well  any  English  people  in  the  course  of 
your  life?  I  say  well,  for  you  must  have  had  acquaintance 
with  many.  But  it  seems  to  me  so  difficult  to  know  an  Eng- 
lishman well.  Even  I,  who  so  loved  and  revered  Mr.  Selby, 
—  I,  whose  childhood  was  admitted  into  his  companionship 
by  that  love  which  places  ignorance  and  knowledge,  infancy 
and  age,  upon  ground  so  equal  that  heart  touches  heart, — 
cannot  say  that  I  understand  the  English  character  to  any- 
thing like  the  extent  to  which  I  fancy  1  understand  the  Italian 
and  the  French.  Between  us  of  the  Continent  and  them  of 
the  island  the  British  Channel  always  flows.  There  is  an 
Englishman  here  to  whom  I  have  been  introduced,  whom  I 
have  met,  though  but  seldom,  in  that  society  which  bounds 
the  Paris  world  to  me.  Pray,  pray  tell  me,  did  you  ever  know, 
ever  meet  him?  His  name  is  Graham  Vane.  He  is  the  only 
son,  I  am  told,  of  a  man  who  was  a  celebrite  in  England  as  an 
orator  and  statesman,  and  on  both  sides  he  belongs  to  the 
haute  aristocratic.  He  himself  has  that  indescribable  air  and 
mien  to  which  we  apply  the  epithet  '  distinguished.'  In  the 
most  crowded  salon  the  eye  would  fix  on  him,  and  involun- 
tarily follow  his  movements.  Yet  his  manners  are  frank  and 
simple,  wholly  without  the  stiffness  or  reserve  which  are  said 
to  characterize  the  English.  There  is  an  inborn  dignity  in 
his  bearing  which  consists  in  the  absence  of  all  dignity  as- 
snmed.  But  what  strikes  me  most  in  this  Englishman  is  an 
expression  of  countenance  which  the  English  depict  by  the 
word  '  open, '  —  that  expression  which  inspires  you  with  a  be- 
lief in  the  existence  of  sincerity.  Mrs.  Morley  said  of  him, 
in  that  poetic  extravagance  of  phrase  by  which  the  Americans 


182  THE  PARISIANS. 

startle  the  English,  "  That  man's  forehead  would  light  up  the 
Mammoth  Cave."  Do  you  not  know,  Eulalie,  what  it  is  to  us 
cultivators  of  art  —  art  being  the  expression  of  truth  through 
fiction  —  to  come  into  the  atmosphere  of  one  of  those  souls  in 
which  Truth  stands  out  bold  and  beautiful  in  itself,  and  needs 
no  idealization  through  fiction?  Oh,  how  near  we  should  be 
to  heaven  could  we  live  daily,  hourly,  in  the  presence  of  one 
the  honesty  of  whose  word  we  could  never  doubt,  the  author- 
ity of  whose  word  we  could  never  disobey!  Mr.  Vane  pro- 
fesses not  to  understand  music,  not  even  to  care  for  it,  except 
rarely,  and  yet  he  spoke  of  its  influence  over  others  with  an 
enthusiasm  that  half  charmed  me  once  more  back  to  my  des- 
tined calling;  nay,  might  have  charmed  me  wholly,  but  that 
he  seemed  to  think  that  I  —  that  any  public  singer  —  must 
be  a  creature  apart  from  the  world,  —  the  world  in  which  such 
men  live.  Perhaps  that  is  true. 


CHAPTER   II. 

IT  was  one  of  those  lovely  noons  towards  the  end  of  May  in 
which  a  rural  suburb  has  the  mellow  charm  of  summer  to  him 
who  escapes  awhile  from  the  streets  of  a  crowded  capital. 
The  Londoner  knows  its  charm  when  he  feels  his  tread  on 
the  softening  swards  of  the  Vale  of  Health,  or,  pausing  at 
Richmond  under  the  budding  willow,  gazes  on  the  river  glit- 
tering in  the  warmer  sunlight,  and  hears  from  the  villa-gar- 
dens behind  him  the  brief  trill  of  the  blackbird.  But  the 
suburbs  round  Paris  are,  I  think,  a  yet  more  pleasing  relief 
from  the  metropolis;  they  are  more  easily  reached,  and  I 
know  not  why,  but  they  seem  more  rural, —  perhaps  because 
the  contrast  of  their  repose  with  the  stir  left  behind,  of  their 
redundance  of  leaf  and  blossom  compared  with  the  prim  efflo- 
rescence of  trees  in  the  Boulevards  and  Tuileries,  is  more 
striking.  However  that  may  be,  when  Graham  reached  the 
pretty  suburb  in  which  Isaura  dwelt,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 


THE   PARISIANS.  183 

all  the  wheels  of  the  loud  busy  life  were  suddenly  smitten 
still.  The  hour  was  yet  early;  he  felt  sure  that  he  should 
find  Isaura  at  home.  The  garden-gate  stood  unfastened  and 
ajar;  he  pushed  it  aside  and  entered.  I  think  I  have  before 
said  that  the  garden  of  the  villa  was  shut  out  from  the  road 
and  the  gaze  of  neighbours  by  a  wall  and  thick  belts  of  ever- 
greens; it  stretched  behind  the  house  somewhat  far  for  the 
garden  of  a  suburban  villa.  He  paused  when  he  had  passed 
the  gateway,  for  he  heard  in  the  distance  the  voice  of  one 
singing, —  singing  low,  singing  plaintively.  He  knew  it  was 
the  voice  of  Isaura;  he  passed  on,  leaving  the  house  behind 
him,  and  tracking  the  voice  till  he  reached  the  singer. 

Isaura  was  seated  within  an  arbour  towards  the  farther 
end  of  the  garden, —  an  arbour  which,  a  little  later  in  the 
year,  must  indeed  be  delicate  and  dainty  with  lush  exuber- 
ance of  jessamine  and  woodbine;  now  into  its  iron  trellis- 
work  leaflets  and  flowers  were  insinuating  their  gentle  way. 
Just  at  the  entrance  one  white  rose  —  a  winter  rose  that  had 
mysteriously  survived  its  relations  —  opened  its  pale  hues 
frankly  to  the  noonday  sun.  Graham  approached  slowly, 
noiselessly,  and  the  last  note  of  the  song  had  ceased  when 
he  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  arbour.  Lsaura  did  not  per- 
ceive him  at  first,  for  her  face  was  bent  downward  musingly, 
as  was  often  her  wont  after  singing,  especially  when  alone; 
but  she  felt  that  the  place  was  darkened,  that  something  stood 
between  her  and  the  sunshine.  She  raised  her  face,  and  a 
quick  flush  mantled  over  it  as  she  uttered  his  name,  not  loudly, 
not  as  in  surprise,  but  inwardly  and  whisperingly,  as  in  a  sort 
of  fear. 

"Pardon  me,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Graham,  entering;  "but 
I  heard  your  voice  as  I  came  into  the  garden,  and  it  drew  me 
onward  involuntarily.  What  a  lovely  air!  and  what  simple 
sweetness  in  such  of  the  words  as  reached  me !  I  am  so  igno- 
rant of  music  that  you  must  not  laugh  at  me  if  I  ask  whose  is 
the  music  and  whose  are  the  words?  Probably  both  are  so 
well  known  as  to  convict  me  of  a  barbarous  ignorance." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Isaura,  with  a  still  heightened  colour,  and 
in  accents  embarrassed  and  hesitating.  "  Both  the  words  and 


184  THE  PARISIANS. 

music  are  by  an  unknown  and  very  humble  composer,  yet  not, 
indeed,  quite  original, — they  have  not  even  that  merit;  at 
least  they  were  suggested  by  a  popular  song  in  the  Neapoli- 
tan dialect  which  is  said  to  be  very  old." 

"I  don't  know  if  I  caught  the  true  meaning  of  the  words, 
for  they  seemed  to  me  to  convey  a  more  subtle  and  refined 
sentiment  than  is  common  in  the  popular  songs  of  southern 
Italy." 

"The  sentiment  in  the  original  is  changed  in  the  para- 
phrase, and  not,  I  fear,  improved  by  the  change." 

"  Will  you  explain  to  me  the  sentiment  in  both,  and  let  me 
judge  which  I  prefer?  " 

"In  the  Neapolitan  song  a  young  fisherman,  who  has 
moored  his  boat  under  a  rock  on  the  shore,  sees  a  beautiful 
face  below  the  surface  of  the  waters;  he  imagines  it  to  be 
that  of  a  Nereid,  and  casts  in  his  net  to  catch  this  supposed 
nymph  of  the  ocean.  He  only  disturbs  the  water,  loses  the 
image,  and  brings  up  a  few  common  fishes.  He  returns  home 
disappointed,  and  very  much  enamoured  of  the  supposed 
Nereid.  The  next  day  he  goes  again  to  the  same  place,  and 
discovers  that  the  face  which  had  so  charmed  him  was  that 
of  a  mortal  girl  reflected  on  the  waters  from  the  rock  behind 
him,  on  which  she  had  been  seated,  and  on  which  she  had 
her  home.  The  original  air  is  arch  and  lively;  just  listen  to 
it."  And  Isaura  warbled  one  of  those  artless  and  somewhat 
meagre  tunes  to  which  light-stringed  instruments  are  the 
fitting  accompaniment. 

"That,"  said  Graham,  "is  a  different  music  indeed  from 
the  other,  which  is  deep  and  plaintive,  and  goes  to  the 
heart." 

"  But  do  you  not  see  how  the  words  have  been  altered?  In 
the  song  you  first  heard  me  singing,  the  fisherman  goes  again 
to  the  spot,  again  and  again  sees  the  face  in  the  water,  again 
and  again  seeks  to  capture  the  Nereid,  and  never  knows  to 
the  last  that  the  face  was  that  of  the  mortal  on  the  rock  close 
behind  him,  and  which  he  passed  by  without  notice  every 
day.  Deluded  by  an  ideal  image,  the  real  one  escapes  from 
his  eye." 


THE   PARISIANS.  185 

"  Is  the  verse  that  is  recast  meant  to  symbolize  a  moral  in 
love?  " 

"In  love?  nay,  I  know  not;  but  in  life,  yes,  — at  least  the 
life  of  the  artist." 

"  The  paraphrase  of  the  original  is  yours,  Signorina,  words 
and  music  both.  Am  I  not  right?  Your  silence  answers 'Yes.' 
Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  say  that,  though  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  the  new  beauty  you  have  given  to  the  old  song, 
I  think  that  the  moral  of  the  old  was  the  sounder  one,  the 
truer  to  human  life.  We  do  not  go  on  to  the  last  duped 
by  an  allusion.  If  enamoured  by  the  shadow  on  the 
waters,  still  we  do  look  around  us  and  discover  the  image  it 
reflects." 

Isaura  shook  her  head  gently,  but  made  no  answer.  On  the 
table  before  her  there  were  a  few  myrtle-sprigs  and  one  or 
two  buds  from  the  last  winter  rose,  which  she  had  been  ar- 
ranging into  a  simple  nosegay;  she  took  up  these,  and  ab- 
stractedly began  to  pluck  and  scatter  the  rose-leaves. 

"Despise  the  coming  May  flowers  if  you  will,  they  will 
soon  be  so  plentiful,"  said  Graham;  "but  do  not  cast  away 
the  few  blossoms  which  winter  has  so  kindly  spared,  and 
which  even  summer  will  not  give  again ; "  and  placing  his 
hand  on  the  winter  buds,  it  touched  hers, —  lightly,  indeed, 
but  she  felt  the  touch,  shrank  from  it,  coloured,  and  rose 
from  her  seat. 

"  The  sun  has  left  this  side  of  the  garden,  the  east  wind  is 
rising,  and  you  must  find  it  chilly  here,"  she  said,  in  an 
altered  tone;  "will  you  not  come  into  the  house?" 

"It  is  not  the  air  that  I  feel  chilly,"  said  Graham,  with  a 
half-smile ;  "  I  almost  fear  that  my  prosaic  admonitions  have 
displeased  you." 

"They  were  not  prosaic;  and  they  were  kind  and  very 
wise,"  she  added,  with  her  exquisite  laugh, —  laugh  so  won- 
derfully sweet  and  musical.  She  now  had  gained  the  en- 
trance of  the  arbour;  Graham  joined  her,  and  they  walked 
towards  the  house.  He  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  much  of 
the  Savarins  since  they  had  met. 

"Once  or  twice  we  have  been  there  of  an  evening." 


186  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  And  encountered,  no  doubt,  the  illustrious  young  minstrel 
who  despises  Tasso  and  Corneille?" 

"  M.  Eameau?  Oh,  yes ;  he  is  constantly  at  the  Savarins. 
Do  not  be  severe  on  him.  He  is  unhappy,  he  is  struggling, 
he  is  soured.  An  artist  has  thorns  in  his  path  which  lookers- 
on  do  not  heed." 

"  All  people  have  thorns  in  their  path,  and  I  have  no  great 
respect  for  those  who  want  lookers-on  to  heed  them  whenever 
they  are  scratched.  But  M.  Eameau  seems  to  me  one  of  those 
writers  very  common  nowadays,  in  France  and  even  in  Eng- 
land ;  writers  who  have  never  read  anything  worth  studying, 
and  are,  of  course,  presumptuous  in  proportion  to  their  igno- 
rance. I  should  not  have  thought  an  artist  like  yourself 
could  have  recognized  an  artist  in  a  M.  Eameau  who  despises 
Tasso  without  knowing  Italian." 

Graham  spoke  bitterly;  he  was  once  more  jealous. 

"Are  you  not  an  artist  yourself?  Are  you  not  a  writer? 
M.  Savarin  told  me  you  were  a  distinguished  man  of  letters." 

"M.  Savarin  flatters  me  too  much.  I  am  not  an  artist, 
and  I  have  a  great  dislike  to  that  word  as  it  is  now  hackneyed 
and  vulgarized  in  England  and  in  France.  A  cook  calls  him- 
self an  artist;  a  tailor  does  the  same;  a  man  writes  a  gaudy 
melodrame,  a  spasmodic  song,  a  sensational  novel,  and 
straightway  he  calls  himself  an  artist,  and  indulges  in  a 
pedantic  jargon  about  '  essence  '  and  '  form, '  assuring  us  that 
a  poet  we  can  understand  wants  essence,  and  a  poet  we  can 
scan  wants  form.  Thank  heaven,  I  am  not  vain  enough  to 
call  myself  artist.  I  have  written  some  very  dry  lucubrations 
in  periodicals,  chiefly  political,  or  critical  upon  other  subjects 
than  art.  But  why,  a  propos  of  M.  Eameau,  did  you  ask  me 
that  question  respecting  myself?  " 

"Because  much  in  your  conversation,"  answered  Isaura,  in 
rather  a  mournful  tone,  "made  me  suppose  you  had  more 
sympathies  with  art  and  its  cultivators  than  you  cared  to 
avow;  and  if  you  had  such  sympathies,  you  would  compre- 
hend what  a  relief  it  is  to  a  poor  aspirant  to  art  like  myself 
to  come  into  communication  with  those  who  devote  them- 
selves to  any  art  distinct  from  the  common  pursuits  of  the 


THE  PARISIANS.  187 

world,  what  a  relief  it  is  to  escape  from  the  ordinary  talk  of 
society.  There  is  a  sort  of  instinctive  freemasonry  among 
us,  including  masters  and  disciples;  and  one  art  has  a  fel- 
lowship with  other  arts.  Mine  is  but  song  and  music,  yet  I 
feel  attracted  towards  a  sculptor,  a  painter,  a  romance-writer, 
a  poet,  as  much  as  towards  a  singer,  a  musician.  Do  you  un- 
derstand why  I  cannot  contemn  M.  Rameau  as  you  do?  I 
differ  from  his  tastes  in  literature;  I  do  not  much  admire 
such  of  his  writings  as  I  have  read;  I  grant  that  he  over- 
estimates his  own  genius,  whatever  that  be, —  yet  I  like  to 
converse  with  him.  He  is  a  struggler  upwards,  though  with 
weak  wings,  or  with  erring  footsteps,  like  myself." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Graham,  earnestly,  "I  cannot  say 
how  I  thank  you  for  this  candour.  Do  not  condemn  rue  for 
abusing  it,  if  —  "  he  paused. 

"If  what?" 

"  If  I,  so  much  older  than  yourself,  —  I  do  not  say  only  in 
years,  but  in  the  experience  of  life,  I  whose  lot  is  cast  among 
those  busy  and  '  positive  '  pursuits,  which  necessarily  quicken 
that  unromantic  faculty  called  common-sense, —  if,  I  say,  the 
deep  interest  with  which  you  must  inspire  all  whom  you  ad- 
mit into  an  acquaintance  even  as  unfamiliar  as  that  now 
between  us  makes  me  utter  one  caution,  such  as  might  be 
uttered  by  a  friend  or  brother.  Beware  of  those  artistic 
sympathies  which  you  so  touchingly  confess ;  beware  how,  in 
the  great  events  of  life,  you  allow  fancy  to  misguide  your 
reason.  In  choosing  friends  on  whom  to  rely,  separate  the 
artist  from  the  human  being.  Judge  of  the  human  being  for 
what  it  is  in  itself.  Do  not  worship  the  face  on  the  waters, 
blind  to  the  image  on  the  rock.  In  one  word,  never  see  in  an 
artist  like  a  M.  Rameau  the  human  being  to  whom  you  could 
intrust  the  destinies  of  your  life.  Pardon  me,  pardon  me; 
we  may  meet  little  hereafter,  but  you  are  a  creature  so  utterly 
new  to  me,  so  wholly  unlike  any  woman  I  have  ever  before 
encountered  and  admired,  and  to  me  seem  endowed  with  such 
wealth  of  mind  and  soul,  exposed  to  such  hazard,  that  — 
that  — "  again  he  paused,  and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  con- 
cluded —  "  that  it  would  be  a  deep  sorrow  to  me  if,  perhaps 


188  THE  PARISIANS. 

years  hence,  I  should  have  to  say,  '  Alas!  by  what  mistake 
has  that  wealth  been  wasted!' 

While  they  had  thus  conversed,  mechanically  they  had 
turned  away  from  the  house,  and  were  again  standing  before 
the  arbour. 

Graham,  absorbed  in  the  passion  of  his  adjuration,  had  not 
till  now  looked  into  the  face  of  the  companion  by  his  side. 
Now,  when  he  had  concluded,  and  heard  no  reply,  he  bent 
down  and  saw  that  Isaura  was  weeping  silently. 

His  heart  smote  him. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  exclaimed,  drawing  her  hand  into  his; 
"  I  have  had  no  right  to  talk  thus ;  but  it  was  not  from  want 
of  respect;  it  was  —  it  was  —  " 

The  hand  which  was  yielded  to  his  pressed  it  gently,  tim- 
idly, chastely. 

"Forgive!"  murmured  Isaura;  "do  you  think  that  I,  an 
orphan,  have  never  longed  for  a  friend  who  would  speak  to 
me  thus?  "  And  so  saying,  she  lifted  her  eyes,  streaming 
still,  to  his  bended  countenance, —  eyes,  despite  their  tears, 
so  clear  in  their  innocent  limpid  beauty,  so  ingenuous,  so 
frank,  so  virgin-like,  so  unlike  the  eyes  of  '  any  other  woman 
he  had  encountered  and  admired.' 

"Alas!"  he  said,  in  quick  and  hurried  accents,  "you  may 
remember,  when  we  have  before  conversed,  how  I,  though  so 
uncultured  in  your  art,  still  recognized  its  beautiful  influence 
upon  human  breasts ;  how  I  sought  to  combat  your  own  de- 
preciation of  its  rank  among  the  elevating  agencies  of  hu- 
manity; how,  too,  I  said  that  no  man  could  venture  to  ask 
you  to  renounce  the  boards,  the  lamps, —  resign  the  fame  of 
actress,  of  singer.  Well,  now  that  you  accord  to  me  the  title 
of  friend,  now  that  you  so  touchingly  remind  me  that  you  are 
an  orphan,  thinking  of  all  the  perils  the  young  and  the  beau- 
tiful of  your  sex  must  encounter  when  they  abandon  private 
life  for  public,  I  think  that  a  true  friend  might  put  the  ques- 
tion, '  Can  you  resign  the  fame  of  actress,  of  singer?  ' 

"I  will  answer  you  frankly.  The  profession  which  once 
seemed  to  me  so  alluring  began  to  lose  its  charms  in  my  eyes 
some  months  ago.  It  was  your  words,  very  eloquently  ex- 


THE  PARISIANS.  189 

pressed,  on  the  ennobling  effects  of  music  and  song  upon  a 
popular  audience,  that  counteracted  the  growing  distaste  to 
rendering  up  my  whole  life  to  the  vocation  of  the  stage ;  but 
now  I  think  I  should  feel  grateful  to  the  friend  whose  advice 
interpreted  the  voice  of  my  own  heart,  and  bade  me  relin- 
quish the  career  of  actress." 

Graham's  face  grew  radiant.  But  whatever  might  have 
been  his  reply  was  arrested ;  voices  and  footsteps  were  heard 
behind.  He  turned  round  and  saw  the  Venosta,  the  Savarins, 
and  Gustave  Rameau. 

Isaura  heard  and  saw  also,  started  in  a  sort  of  alarmed  con- 
fusion, and  then  instinctively  retreated  towards  the  arbour. 

Graham  hurried  on  to  meet  the  Signora  and  the  visitors, 
giving  time  to  Isaura  to  compose  herself  by  arresting  them  in 
the  pathway  with  conventional  salutations. 

A  few  minutes  later  Isaura  joined  them,  and  there  was  talk 
to  which  Graham  scarcely  listened,  though  he  shared  in  it 
by  abstracted  monosyllables.  He  declined  going  into  the 
house,  and  took  leave  at  the  gate.  In  parting,  his  eyes  fixed 
themselves  on  Isaura.  Gustave  Eameau  was  by  her  side. 
That  nosegay  which  had  been  left  in  the  arbour  was  in  her 
hand;  and  though  she  was  bending  over  it,  she  did  not  now 
pluck  and  scatter  the  rose-leaves.  Graham  at  that  moment 
felt  no  jealousy  of  the  fair-faced  young  poet  beside  her. 

As  he  walked  slowly  back,  he  muttered  to  himself,  "But 
am  I  yet  in  the  position  to  hold  myself  wholly  free?  Am  I, 
am  I?  Were  the  sole  choice  before  me  that  between  her  and 
ambition  and  wealth,  how  soon  it  would  be  made !  Ambition 
has  no  prize  equal  to  the  heart  of  such  a  woman :  wealth  no 
sources  of  joy  equal  to  the  treasures  of  her  love." 


190  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER   III. 

FROM  IS  AURA  CICOGNA   TO   MADAME  DE   GRANTMESNIL. 

THE  day  after  T  posted  my  last,  Mr.  Vane  called  on  us.  I 
was  in  our  little  garden  at  the  time.  Our  conversation  was 
brief,  and  soon  interrupted  by  visitors, —  the  Savarins  and 
M.  Rameau.  I  long  for  your  answer.  I  wonder  how  he  im- 
pressed you,  if  you  have  met  him;  how  he  would  impress,  if 
you  met  him  now.  To  me  he  is  so  different  from  all  others ; 
and  I  scarcely  know  why  his  words  ring  in  my  ears,  and  his 
image  rests  in  my  thoughts.  It  is  strange  altogether;  for 
though  he  is  young,  he  speaks  to  me  as  if  he  were  so  much 
older  than  I,  —  so  kindly,  so  tenderly,  yet  as  if  I  were  a  child, 
and  much  as  the  dear  Maestro  might  do,  if  he  thought  I 
needed  caution  or  counsel.  Do  not  fancy,  Eulalie,  that  there 
is  any  danger  of  my  deceiving  myself  as  to  the  nature  of  such 
interest  as  he  may  take  in  me.  Oh,  no !  There  is  a  gulf  be- 
tween us  there  which  he  does  not  lose  sight  of,  and  which  we 
could  not  pass.  How,  indeed,  I  could  interest  him  at  all,  I 
cannot  guess.  A  rich,  high-born  Englishman,  intent  on  polit- 
ical life;  practical,  prosaic  —  no,  not  prosaic;  but  still  with 
the  kind  of  sense  which  does  not  admit  into  its  range  of  vision 
that  world  of  dreams  which  is  familiar  as  their  daily  home  to 
Romance  and  to  Art.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  for 
love,  love  such  as  I  conceive  it,  there  must  be  a  deep  and  con- 
stant sympathy  between  two  persons, —  not,  indeed,  in  the 
usual  and  ordinary  trifles  of  taste  and  sentiment,  but  in  those 
essentials  which  form  the  root  of  character,  and  branch  out 
in  all  the  leaves  and  blooms  that  expand  to  the  sunshine  and 
shrink  from  the  cold, —  that  the  worldling  should  wed  the 
worldling,  the  artist  the  artist.  Can  the  realist  and  the 
idealist  blend  together,  and  hold  together  till  death  and  be- 
yond death?  If  not,  can  there  be  true  love  between  them? 


THE  PARISIANS.  191 

By  true  love,   I  mean  the  love  which  interpenetrates  the 
soul,  and  once  given  can  never  die.     Oh,  Eulalie,  answer  me, 


answer ! 


P.  S.  —  I  have  now  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  renounce  all 
thought  of  the  stage. 


FROM  MADAME  DE  GRANTMESNIL  TO  ISAURA  CICOGNA. 

MY  DEAR  CHILD, — how  your  mind  has  grown  since  you 
left  me,  the  sanguine  and  aspiring  votary  of  an  art  which,  of 
all  arts,  brings  the  most  immediate  reward  to  a  successful 
cultivator,  and  is  in  itself  so  divine  in  its  immediate  effects 
upon  human  souls!  Who  shall  say  what  maybe  the  after - 
results  of  those  effects  which  the  waiters  on  posterity  pre- 
sume to  despise  because  they  are  immediate?  A  dull  man,  to 
whose  mind  a  ray  of  that  vague  starlight  undetected  in  the 
atmosphere  of  workday  life  has  never  yet  travelled ;  to  whom 
the  philosopher,  the  preacher,  the  poet  appeal  in  vain, —  nay, 
to  whom  the  conceptions  of  the  grandest  master  of  instru- 
mental music  are  incomprehensible;  to  whom  Beethoven  un- 
locks no  portal  in  heaven;  to  whom  Rossini  has  no  mysteries 
on  earth  unsolved  by  the  critics  of  the  pit, —  suddenly  hears 
the  human  voice  of  the  human  singer,  and  at  the  sound  of 
that  voice  the  walls  which  enclosed  him  fall.  The  something 
far  from  and  beyond  the  routine  of  his  commonplace  existence 
becomes  known  to  him.  He  of  himself,  poor  man,  can  make 
nothing  of  it.  He  cannot  put  it  down  on  paper,  and  say  the 
next  morning,  "  I  am  an  inch  nearer  to  heaven  than  I  was  last 
night;"  but  the  feeling  that  he  is  an  inch  nearer  to  heaven 
abides  with  him.  Unconsciously  he  is  gentler,  he  is  less 
earthly,  and,  in  being  nearer  to  heaven,  he  is  stronger  for 
earth.  You  singers  do  not  seem  to  me  to  understand  that 
you  have —  to  use  your  own  word,  so  much  in  vogue  that  it 
has  become  abused  and  trite  —  a  mission!  "When  you  talk  of 
missions,  from  whom  comes  the  mission?  Not  from  men. 
If  there  be  a  mission  from  man  to  men,  it  must  be  appointed 
from  on  hic;h. 


192  THE  PARISIANS. 

Think  of  all  this ;  and  in  being  faithful  to  your  art,  be  true 
to  yourself.  If  you  feel  divided  between  that  art  and  the  art 
of  the  writer,  and  acknowledge  the  first  to  be  too  exacting 
to  admit  a  rival,  keep  to  that  in  which  you  are  sure  to  excel. 
Alas,  my  fair  child!  do  not  imagine  that  we  writers  feel  a 
happiness  in  our  pursuits  and  aims  more  complete  than  that 
which  you  can  command.  If  we  care  for  fame  (and,  to  be 
frank,  we  all  do),  that  fame  does  not  come  up  before  us  face 
to  face,  a  real,  visible,  palpable  form,  as  it  does  to  the 
singer,  to  the  actress.  I  grant  that  it  may  be  more  enduring, 
but  an  endurance  on  the  length  of  which  we  dare  not  reckon. 
A  writer  cannot  be  sure  of  immortality  till  his  language  itself 
be  dead ;  and  then  he  has  but  a  share  in  an  uncertain  lottery. 
Nothing  but  fragments  remains  of  the  Phrynichus  who  ri- 
valled ^Eschylus ;  of  the  Agathon  who  perhaps  excelled  Eu- 
ripides; of  the  Alceeus,  in  whom  Horace  acknowledged  a 
master  and  a  model;  their  renown  is  not  in  their  works,  it 
is  but  in  their  names.  And,  after  all,  the  names  of  singers 
and  actors  last  perhaps  as  long.  Greece  retains  the  name  of 
Polus,  Borne  of  Roscius,  England  of  Garrick,  France  of 
Talma,  Italy  of  Pasta,  more  lastingly  than  posterity  is  likely 
to  retain  mine.  You  address  to  me  a  question,  which  I  have 
often  put  to  myself, —  "What  is  the  distinction  between  the 
writer  and  the  reader,  when  the  reader  says,  '  These  are  my 
thoughts,  these  are  my  feelings ;  the  writer  has  stolen  them, 
and  clothed  them  in  his  own  words  '  ?  "  And  the  more  the 
reader  says  this,  the  more  wide  is  the  audience,  the  more 
genuine  the  renown,  and,  paradox  though  it  seems,  the  more 
consummate  the  originality,  of  the  writer.  But  no,  it  is  not 
the  mere  gift  of  expression,  it  is  not  the  mere  craft  of  the 
pen,  it  is  not  the  mere  taste  in  arrangement  of  word  and 
cadence,  which  thus  enables  the  one  to  interpret  the  mind, 
the  heart,  the  soul  of  the  many.  It  is  a  power  breathed  into 
him  as  he  lay  in  his  cradle,  and  a  power  that  gathered  around 
itself,  as  he  grew  up,  all  the  influences  he  acquired,  whether 
from  observation  of  external  nature,  or  from  study  of  men 
and  books,  or  from  that  experience  of  daily  life  which  varies 
with  every  human  being.  No  education  could  make  two  in- 


THE  PARISIANS.  193 

tellects  exactly  alike,  as  no  culture  can  make  two  leaves 
exactly  alike.  How  truly  you  describe  the  sense  of  dissatis- 
faction which,  every  writer  of  superior  genius  communicates 
to  his  admirers !  how  truly  do  you  feel  that  the  greater  is  the 
dissatisfaction  in  proportion  to  the  writer's  genius,  and  the 
admirer's  conception  of  it!  But  that  is  the  mystery  which 
makes  —  let  me  borrow  a  German  phrase  —  the  cloud-land  be- 
tween the  finite  and  the  infinite.  The  greatest  philosopher, 
intent  on  the  secrets  of  Nature,  feels  that  dissatisfaction  in 
Nature  herself.  The  finite  cannot  reduce  into  logic  and 
criticism  the  infinite. 

Let  us  dismiss  these  matters,  which  perplex  the  reason, 
and  approach  that  which  touches  the  heart,  which  in  your 
case,  my  child,  touches  the  heart  of  woman.  You  speak  of 
love,  and  deem  that  the  love  which  lasts  —  the  household, 
the  conjugal  love  —  should  be  based  upon  such  sympathies 
of  pursuit  that  the  artist  should  wed  the  artist. 

This  is  one  of  the  questions  you  do  well  to  address  to  me; 
for  whether  from  my  own  experience,  or  from  that  which  I 
have  gained  from  observation  extended  over  a  wide  range  of 
life,  and  quickened  and  intensified  by  the  class  of  writing 
that  I  cultivate,  and  which  necessitates  a  calm  study  of  the 
passions,  I  am  an  authority  on  such  subjects,  better  than  most 
women  can  be.  And  alas,  my  child,  I  come  to  this  result : 
there  is  no  prescribing  to  men  or  to  women  whom  to  select, 
whom  to  refuse.  I  cannot  refute  the  axiom  of  the  ancient 
poet,  "In  love  there  is  no  wherefore."  But  there  is  a  time  — 
it  is  often  but  a  moment  of  time  —  in  which  love  is  not  yet 
a  master,  in  which  we  can  say,  "I  will  love,  I  will  not  love." 

Now,  if  I  could  find  you  in  such  a  moment,  I  would  say  to 
you,  "Artist,  do  not  love,  do  not  marry,  an  artist."  Two 
artistic  natures  rarely  combine.  The  artistic  nature  is  won- 
derfully exacting.  I  fear  it  is  supremely  egotistical, —  so 
jealously  sensitive  that  it  writhes  at  the  touch  of  a  rival. 
Racine  was  the  happiest  of  husbands;  his  wife  adored  his 
genius,  but  could  not  understand  his  plays.  Would  Racine 
have  been  happy  if  he  had  married  a  Corneille  in  petticoats? 
I  who  speak  have  loved  an  artist,  certainly  equal  to  myself. 

VOL.  I.  —  13 


194  THE   PARISIANS. 

I  am  sure  that  he  loved  me.  That  sympathy  in  pursuits  of 
which  you  speak  drew  us  together,  and  became  very  soon 
the  cause  of  antipathy.  To  both  of  us  the  endeavour  to  coal- 
esce was  misery. 

I  don't  know  your  M.  Kameau.  Savarin  has  sent  me  some 
of  his  writings;  from  these  I  judge  that  his  only  chance  of 
happiness  would  be  to  marry  a  commonplace  woman,  with 
separation  de  liens.  He  is,  believe  me,  but  one  of  the  many 
with  whom  New  Paris  abounds,  who  because  they  have  the 
infirmities  of  genius  imagine  they  have  its  strength. 

I  come  next  to  the  Englishman.  I  see  how  serious  is  your 
questioning  about  him.  You  not  only  regard  him  as  a  being 
distinct  from  the  crowd  of  a  salon;  he  stands  equally  apart 
in  the  chamber  of  your  thoughts, —  you  do  not  mention  him 
in  the  same  letter  as  that  which  treats  of  Rameau  and  Sava- 
rin. He  has  become  already  an  image  not  to  be  lightly  mixed 
up  with  others.  You  would  rather  not  have  mentioned  him 
at  all  to  me,  but  you  could  not  resist  it.  The  interest  you 
feel  in  him  so  perplexed  you,  that  in  a  kind  of  feverish  im- 
patience you  cry  out  to  me,  "Can  you  solve  the  riddle?  Did 
you  ever  know  well  Englishmen?  Can  an  Englishman  be 
understood  out  of  his  island?"  etc.  Yes,  I  have  known  well 
many  Englishmen ;  in  affairs  of  the  heart  they  are  much  like 
all  other  men.  No;  I  do  not  know  this  Englishman  in  par- 
ticular, nor  any  one  of  his  name. 

Well,  my  child,  let  us  frankly  grant  that  this  foreigner  has 
gained  some  hold  on  your  thoughts,  on  your  fancy,  perhaps 
also  on  your  heart.  Do  not  fear  that  he  will  love  you  less 
enduringly,  or  that  you  will  become  alienated  from  him,  be- 
cause he  is  not  an  artist.  If  he  be  a  strong  nature,  and  with 
some  great  purpose  in  life,  your  ambition  will  fuse  itself  in 
his ;  and  knowing  you  as  I  do,  I  believe  you  would  make  an 
excellent  wife  to  an  Englishman  whom  you  honoured  as  well 
as  loved ;  and  sorry  though  I  should  be  that  you  relinquished 
the  singer's  fame,  I  should  be  consoled  in  thinking  you  safe 
in  the  woman's  best  sphere, —  a  contented  home,  safe  from 
calumny,  safe  from  gossip.  I  never  had  that  home;  and 
there  has  been  no  part  in  my  author's  life  in  which  I  would 


THE  PARISIANS.  195 

not  have  given  all  the  celebrity  it  won  for  the  obscure  com- 
monplace of  such  woman-lot.  Could  I  move  human  beings 
as  pawns  on  a  chessboard,  I  should  indeed  say  that  the  most 
suitable  and  congenial  mate  for  you,  for  a  woman  of  senti- 
ment and  genius,  would  be  a  well-born  and  well-educated 
German ;  for  such  a  German  unites,  with  domestic  habits  and 
a  strong  sense  of  family  ties,  a  romance  of  sentiment,  a  love 
of  art,  a  predisposition  towards  the  poetic  side  of  life,  which 
is  very  rare  among  Englishmen  of  the  same  class.  But  as 
the  German  is  not  forthcoming,  I  give  my  vote  for  the  Eng- 
lishman, provided  only  you  love  him.  Ah,  child,  be  sure  of 
that.  Do  not  mistake  fancy  for  love.  All  women  do  not  re- 
quire love  in  marriage,  but  without  it  that  which  is  best  and 
highest  in  you  would  wither  and  die.  Write  to  me  often  and 
tell  me  all.  M.  Savarin  is  right.  My  book  is  no  longer  my 
companion.  It  is  gone  from  me,  and  I  am  once  more  alone 
in  the  world. 

Yours  affectionately. 

P.  S. — Is  not  your  postscript  a  woman's?  Does  it  not 
require  a  woman's  postscript  in  reply?  You  say  in  yours 
that  you  have  fully  made  up  your  mind  to  renounce  all 
thoughts  of  the  stage.  I  ask  in  mine,  "  What  has  the  Eng- 
lishman to  do  with  that  determination?" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SOME  weeks  have  passed  since  Graham's  talk  with  Isaura 
in  the  garden;  he  has  not  visited  the  villa  since.  His  cousins 
the  D'Altons  have  passed  through  Paris  on  their  way  to  Italy, 
meaning  to  stay  a  few  days ;  they  stayed  nearly  a  month,  and 
monopolized  much  of  Graham's  companionship.  Both  these 
were  reasons  why,  in  the  habitual  society  of  the  Duke,  Gra- 
ham's persuasion  that  he  was  not  yet  free  to  court  the  hand 
of  Isaura  became  strengthened,  and  with  that  persuasion  ne- 


196  THE  PARISIANS. 

cessarily  came  a  question  equally  addressed  to  his  conscience. ' 
"If  not  yet  free  to  court  her  hand,  am  I  free  to  expose  my- 
self to  the  temptation  of  seeking  to  win  her  affection?  "  But 
when  his  cousin  was  gone,  his  heart  began  to  assert  its  own 
rights,  to  argue  its  own  case,  and  suggest  modes  of  reconcil- 
ing its  dictates  to  the  obligations  which  seemed  to  oppose 
them.  In  this  hesitating  state  of  mind  he  received  the  fol- 
lowing note : — 

VILLA ,  LAC  D'ENGHIEN. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  VANE,  —  We  have  retreated  from  Paris  to  the 
banks  of  this  beautiful  little  lake.  Come  and  help  to  save  Frank  and  my- 
self from  quarrelling  with  each  other,  which,  until  the  Rights  of  Women 
are  firmly  established,  married  folks  always  will  do  when  left  to  them- 
selves, especially  if  they  are  still  lovers,  as  Frank  and  I  are.  Love  is  a 
terribly  quarrelsome  thing.  Make  us  a  present  of  a  few  days,  out  of  your 
wealth  of  time.  We  will  visit  Montmorency  and  the  haunts  of  Rousseau, 
sail  on  the  lake  at  moonlight,  dine  at  gypsy  restaurants  under  trees  not 
yet  embfowned  by  summer  heats,  discuss  literature  and  politics,  "  Shak- 
speare  and  the  musical  glasses,"  —  and  be  as  sociable  and  pleasant  as 
Boccaccio's  tale-tellers,  at  Fiesole.  We  shall  be  but  a  small  party,  only 
the  Savarins,  that  unconscious  sage  and  humourist  Signora  Venosta, 
and  that  dimple-cheeked  Isaura,  who  embodies  the  song  of  nightingales 
and  the  smile  of  summer.  ^  Refuse,  and  Frank  shall  not  have  an  easy 
moment  till  he  sends  in  his  claims  for  thirty  millions  against  the 
Alabama. 

Yours,  as  you  behave, 

LIZZIE   MORLEY. 

Graham  did  not  refuse.  He  went  to  Enghien  for  four  days 
and  a  quarter.  He  was  under  the  same  roof  as  Isaura.  Oh, 
those  happy  days !  so  happy  that  they  defy  description.  But 
though  to  Graham  the  happiest  days  he  had  ever  known,  they 
were  happier  still  to  Isaura.  There  were  drawbacks  to  his 
happiness,  none  to  hers, —  drawbacks  partly  from  reasons  the 
weight  of  which  the  reader  will  estimate  later ;  partly  from 
reasons  the  reader  may  at  once  comprehend  and  assess.  In 
the  sunshine  of  her  joy,  all  the  vivid  colourings  of  Isaura's 
artistic  temperament  came  forth,  so  that  what  I  may  call  the 
homely,  domestic  woman-side  of  her  nature  faded  into  shadow. 
If,  my  dear  reader,  whether  you  be  man  or  woman,  you  have 


THE  PARISIANS.  197 

come  into  familiar  contact  with  some  creature  of  a  genius  to 
which,  even  assuming  that  you  yourself  have  a  genius  in  its 
own  way,  you  have  no  special  affinities,  have  you  not  felt 
shy  with  that  creature?  Have  you  not,  perhaps,  felt  how  in- 
tensely you  could  love  that  creature,  and  doubted  if  that  crea- 
ture could  possibly  love  you?  Now  I  think  that  shyness  and 
that  disbelief  are  common  with  either  man  or  woman,  if, 
however  conscious  of  superiority  in  the  prose  of  life,  he  or 
she  recognizes  inferiority  in  the  poetry  of  it.  And  yet  this 
self-abasement  is  exceedingly  mistaken.  The  poetical  kind 
of  genius  is  so  grandly  indulgent,  so  inherently  deferential, 
bows  with  such  unaffected  modesty  to  the  superiority  in  which 
it  fears  it  may  fail  (yet  seldom  does  fail), —  the  superiority  of 
common-sense.  And  when  we  come  to  women,  what  marvel- 
lous truth  is  conveyed  by  the  woman  who  has  had  no  superior 
in  intellectual  gifts  among  her  own  sex!  Corinne,  crowned 
at  the  Capitol,  selects  out  of  the  whole  world  as  the  hero  of 
her  love  no  rival  poet  and  enthusiast,  but  a  cold-blooded, 
sensible  Englishman. 

Graham  Vane,  in  his  strong  masculine  form  of  intellect  — 
Graham  Vane,  from  whom  I  hope  much,  if  he  live  to  fulfil  his 
rightful  career — had,  not  unreasonably,  the  desire  to  dominate 
the  life  of  the  woman  whom  he  selected  as  the  partner  of  his 
own ;  but  the  life  of  Isaura  seemed  to  escape  him.  If  at  mo- 
ments, listening  to  her,  he  would  say  to  himself,  "  What  a 
companion!  life  could  never  be  dull  with  her,"  at  other 
moments  he  would  say,  "True,  never  dull,  but  would  it  be 
always  safe?  "  And  then  comes  in  that  mysterious  power  of 
love  which  crushes  all  beneath  its  feet,  and  makes  us  end 
self-commune  by  that  abject  submission  of  reason,  which  only 
murmurs,  "Better  be  unhappy  with  the  one  you  love  than 
happy  with  one  whom  you  do  not."  All  such  self -communes 
were  unknown  to  Isaura.  She  lived  in  the  bliss  of  the  hour. 
If  Graham  could  have  read  her  heart,  he  would  have  dis- 
missed all  doubt  whether  he  could  dominate  her  life.  Could 
a  Fate  or  an  Angel  have  said  to  her,  "Choose, —  on  one  side  I 
promise  you  the  glories  of  a  Catalani,  a  Pasta,  a  Sappho,  a 
De  Stael,  a  Georges  Sand,  all  combined  into  one  immortal 


198  THE  PARISIANS. 

name ;  or,  on  the  other  side,  the  whole  heart  of  the  man  who 
would  estrange  himself  from  you  if  you  had  such  combina- 
tion of  glories," — her  answer  would  have  brought  Graham 
Vane  to  her  feet.  All  scruples,  all  doubts,  would  have  van- 
ished ;  he  would  have  exclaimed,  with  the  generosity  inherent 
in  the  higher  order  of  man,  "Be  glorious,  if  your  nature  wills 
it  so.  Glory  enough  to  me  that  you  would  have  resigned 
glory  itself  to  become  mine."  But  how  is  it  that  men  worth 
a  woman's  loving  become  so  diffident  when  they  love  in- 
tensely? Even  in  ordinary  cases  of  love  there  is  so  ineffable 
a  delicacy  in  virgin  woman,  that  a  man,  be  he  how  refined 
soever,  feels  himself  rough  and  rude  and  coarse  in  compari- 
son ;  and  while  that  sort  of  delicacy  was  pre-eminent  in  this 
Italian  orphan,  there  came,  to  increase  the  humility  of  the 
man  so  proud  and  so  confident  in  himself  when  he  had  only 
men  to  deal  with,  the  consciousness  that  his  intellectual  na- 
ture was  hard  and  positive  beside  the  angel-like  purity  and 
the  fairy-like  play  of  hers. 

There  was  a  strong  wish  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Morley  to 
bring  about  the  union  of  these  two.  She  had  a  great  regard 
and  a  great  admiration  for  both.  To  her  mind,  unconscious 
of  all  Graham's  doubts  and  prejudices,  they  were  exactly 
suited  to  each  other.  A  man  of  intellect  so  cultivated  as 
Graham's,  if  married  to  a  commonplace  English  "Miss," 
would  surely  feel  as  if  life  had  no  sunshine  and  no  flowers. 
The  love  of  an  Isaura  would  steep  it  in  sunshine,  pave  it 
with  flowers.  Mrs.  Morley  admitted  —  all  American  Repub- 
licans of  gentle  birth  do  admit  —  the  instincts  which  lead 
"like  "  to  match  with  "like,"  an  equality  of  blood  and  race. 
With  all  her  assertion  of  the  Rights  of  Woman,  I  do  not 
think  that  Mrs.  Morley  would  ever  have  conceived  the  pos- 
sibility of  consenting  that  the  richest  and  prettiest  and 
cleverest  girl  in  the  States  could  become  the  wife  of  a  son  of 
hers  if  the  girl  had  the  taint  of  negro  blood,  even  though 
shown  nowhere  save  the  slight  distinguishing  hue  of  her 
finger-nails.  So  had  Isaura's  merits  been  threefold  what 
they  were  and  she  had  been  the  wealthy  heiress  of  a  retail 
grocer,  this  fair  Republican  would  have  opposed  (more 


THE  PARISIANS.  199 

strongly  than  many  an  English  duchess,  or  at  least  a  Scotch 
duke,  would  do,  the  wish  of  a  son),  the  thought  of  an  alli- 
ance between  Graham  Vane  and  the  grocer's  daughter!  But 
Isaura  was  a  Cicogna,  an  offspring  of  a  very  ancient  and  very 
noble  house.  Disparities  of  fortune,  or  mere  worldly  posi- 
tion, Mrs.  Morley  supremely  despised.  Here  were  the  great 
parities  of  alliance, —  parities  in  years  and  good  looks  and 
mental  culture.  So,  in  short,  she  in  the  invitation  given  to 
them  had  planned  for  the  union  between  Isaura  and  Graham. 
To  this  plan  she  had  an  antagonist,  whom  she  did  not  even 
guess,  in  Madame  Savarin.  That  lady,  as  much  attached  to 
Isaura  as  was  Mrs.  Morley  herself,  and  still  more  desirous 
of  seeing  a  girl,  brilliant  and  parentless,  transferred  from 
the  companionship  of  Signora  Venosta  to  the  protection  of  a 
husband,  entertained  no  belief  in  the  serious  attentions  of 
Graham  Vane.  Perhaps  she  exaggerated  his  worldly  advan- 
tages, perhaps  she  undervalued  the  warmth  of  his  affections; 
but  it  was  not  within  the  range  of  her  experience,  confined 
much  to  Parisian  life,  nor  in  harmony  with  her  notions  of 
the  frigidity  and  morgue  of  the  English  national  character, 
that  a  rich  and  high-born  young  man,  to  whom  a  great  career 
in  practical  public  life  was  predicted,  should  form  a  matri- 
monial alliance  with  a  foreign  orphan  girl,  who,  if  of  gentle 
birth,  had  no  useful  connections,  would  bring  no  correspond- 
ent dot,  and  had  been  reared  and  intended  for  the  profession 
of  the  stage.  She  much  more  feared  that  the  result  of  any  at- 
tentions on  the  part  of  such  a  man  would  be  rather  calculated 
to  compromise  the  orphan's  name,  or  at  least  to  mislead  her 
expectations,  than  to  secure  her  the  shelter  of  a  wedded  home. 
Moreover,  she  had  cherished  plans  of  her  own  for  Isaura's 
future.  Madame  Savarin  had  conceived  for  Gustave  Kameau 
a  friendly  regard,  stronger  than  that  which  Mrs.  Morley  en- 
tertained for  Graham  Vane,  for  it  was  more  motherly.  Gus- 
tave had  been  familiarized  to  her  sight  and  her  thoughts  since 
he  had  first  been  launched  into  the  literary  world  under  her 
husband's  auspices;  he  had  confided  to  her  his  mortification  in 
his  failures,  his  joy  in  his  successes.  His  beautiful  counte- 
nance, his  delicate  health,  his  very  infirmities  and  defects, 


200  THE  PARISIANS. 

had  endeared  him  to  her  womanly  heart.  Isaura  was  the 
wife  of  all  others  who,  in  Madame  Savarin's  opinion,  was 
made  for  Rameau.  Her  fortune,  so  trivial  beside  the  wealth 
of  the  Englishman,  would  be  a  competence  to  Rameau;  then 
that  competence  might  swell  into  vast  riches  if  Isaura  suc- 
ceeded on  the  stage.  She  found  with  extreme  displeasure 
that  Isaura's  mind  had  become  estranged  from  the  profession 
to  which  she  had  been  destined,  and  divined  that  a  deference 
to  the  Englishman's  prejudices  had  something  to  do  with  that 
estrangement.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  a  French- 
woman, wife  to  a  sprightly  man  of  letters,  who  had  intimate 
friends  and  allies  in  every  department  of  the  artistic  world, 
should  cherish  any  prejudice  whatever  against  the  exercise 
of  an  art  in  which  success  achieved  riches  and  renown;  but 
she  was  prejudiced,  as  most  Frenchwomen  are,  against  allow- 
ing to  unmarried  girls  the  same  freedom  and  independence  of 
action  that  are  the  rights  of  women  —  French  women  —  when 
married;  and  she  would  have  disapproved  the  entrance  of 
Isaura  on  her  professional  career  until  she  could  enter  it  as 
a  wife,  the  wife  of  an  artist,  the  wife  of  Gustave  Rameau. 

Unaware  of  the  rivalry  between  these  friendly  diplomatists 
and  schemers,  Graham  and  Isaura  glided  hourly  more  and 
more  down  the  current,  which  as  yet  ran  smooth.  No  words 
by  which  love  is  spoken  were  exchanged  between  them;  in 
fact,  though  constantly  together,  they  were  very  rarely,  and 
then  but  for  moments,  alone  with  each  other.  Mrs.  Morley 
artfully  schemed  more  than  once  to  give  them  such  opportu- 
nities for  that  mutual  explanation  of  heart  which,  she  saw, 
had  not  yet  taken  place;  with  art  more  practised  and  more 
watchful,  Madame  Savarin  contrived  to  baffle  her  hostess's 
intention.  But,  indeed,  neither  Graham  nor  Isaura  sought 
to  make  opportunities  for  themselves.  He,  as  we  know,  did 
not  deem  himself  wholly  justified  in  uttering  the  words  of 
love  by  which  a  man  of  honour  binds  himself  for  life;  and 
she !  —  what  girl  pure-hearted  and  loving  truly  does  not 
shrink  from  seeking  the  opportunities  which  it  is  for  the  man 
to  court?  Yet  Isaura  needed  no  words  to  tell  her  that  she 
was  loved, —  no,  nor  even  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  a  glance  of 


THE  PARISIANS.  201 

the  eye;  she  felt  it  instinctively,  mysteriously,  by  the  glow 
of  her  own  being  in  the  presence  of  her  lover.  She  knew 
that  she  herself  could  not  so  love  unless  she  were  beloved. 

Here  woman's  wit  is  keener  and  truthfuller  than  man's. 
Graham,  as  I  have  said,  did  not  feel  confident  that  he  had 
reached  the  heart  of  Isaura.  He  was  conscious  that  he  had 
engaged  her  interest,  that  he  had  attracted  her  fancy;  but 
often,  when  charmed  by  the  joyous  play  of  her  imagination, 
he  would  sigh  to  himself,  "  To  natures  so  gifted  what  single 
mortal  can  be  the  all  in  all." 

They  spent  the  summer  mornings  in  excursions  round  the 
beautiful  neighbourhood,  dined  early,  and  sailed  011  the  calm 
lake  at  moonlight.  Their  talk  was  such  as  might  be  ex- 
pected from  lovers  of  books  in  summer  holidays.  Savarin 
was  a  critic  by  profession;  Graham  Vane,  if  not  that,  at 
least  owed  such  literary  reputation  as  he  had  yet  gained  to 
essays  in  which  the  rare  critical  faculty  was  conspicuously 
developed. 

It  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  clash  of  these  two  minds  en- 
countering each  other;  they  differed  perhaps  less  in  opinions 
than  in  the  mode  by  which  opinions  are  discussed.  The 
Englishman's  range  of  reading  was  wider  than  the  French- 
man's, and  his  scholarship  more  accurate;  but  the  French- 
man had  a  compact  neatness  of  expression,  a  light  and  nimble 
grace,  whether  in  the  advancing  or  the  retreat  of  his  argu- 
ment, which  covered  deficiencies,  and  often  made  them  appear 
like  merits.  Graham  was  compelled,  indeed,  to  relinquish 
many  of  the  forces  of  superior  knowledge  or  graver  eloquence, 
which  with  less  lively  antagonists  he  could  have  brought  into 
the  field,  for  the  witty  sarcasm  of  Savarin  would  have  turned 
them  aside  as  pedantry  or  declamation.  But  though  Graham 
was  neither  dry  nor  diffuse,  and  the  happiness  at  his  heart 
brought  out  the  gayety  of  humour  which  had  been  his  early 
characteristic,  and  yet  rendered  his  familiar  intercourse  ge- 
nial and  playful,  still  there  was  this  distinction  between  his 
humour  and  Savarin's  wit, —  that  in  the  first  there  was  al- 
ways something  earnest,  in  the  last  always  something  mock- 
ing. And  in  criticism  Graham  seemed  ever  anxious  to  bring 


202  THE  PARISIANS. 

out  a  latent  beauty,  even  in  writers  comparatively  neglected ; 
Savarin  was  acutest  when  dragging  forth  a  blemish  never  be- 
fore discovered  in  writers  universally  read. 

Graham  did  not  perhaps  notice  the  profound  attention  with 
which  Isaura  listened  to  him  in  these  intellectual  skirmishes 
with  the  more  glittering  Parisian.  There  was  this  distinc- 
tion she  made  between  him  and  Savarin, —  when  the  last 
spoke  she  often  chimed  in  with  some  happy  sentiment  of  her 
own;  but  she  never  interrupted  Graham,  never  intimated  a 
dissent  from  his  theories  of  art,  or  the  deductions  he  drew 
from  them;  and  she  would  remain  silent  and  thoughtful  for 
some  minutes  when  his  voice  ceased.  There  was  passing 
from  his  mind  into  hers  an  ambition  which  she  imagined, 
poor  girl,  that  he  would  be  pleased  to  think  he  had  inspired, 
and  which  might  become  a  new  bond  of  sympathy  between 
them.  But  as  yet  the  ambition  was  vague  and  timid, —  an 
idea  or  a  dream  to  be  fulfilled  in  some  indefinite  future. 

The  last  night  of  this  short-lived  holiday-time,  the  party, 
after  staying  out  on  the  lake  to  a  later  hour  than  usual,  stood 
lingering  still  on  the  lawn  of  the  villa ;  and  their  host,  who 
was  rather  addicted  to  superficial  studies  of  the  positive 
sciences,  including,  of  course,  the  most  popular  of  all,  as- 
tronomy, kept  his  guests  politely  listening  to  speculative 
conjectures  on  the  probable  size  of  the  inhabitants  of  Sirius, 
that  very  distant  and  very  gigantic  inhabitant  of  heaven  who 
has  led  philosophers  into  mortifying  reflections  upon  the  utter 
insignificance  of  our  own  poor  little  planet,  capable  of  pro- 
ducing nothing  greater  than  Shakspeares  and  Newtons,  Aris- 
totles  and  Caesars, —  mannikins,  no  doubt,  beside  intellects 
proportioned  to  the  size  of  the  world  in  which  they  flourish. 

As  it  chanced,  Isaura  and  Graham  were  then  standing  close 
to  each  other  and  a  little  apart  from  the  rest.  "  It  is  very 
strange,"  said  Graham,  laughing  low, "how  little  I  care  about 
Sirius.  He  is  the  sun  of  some  other  system,  and  is  perhaps 
not  habitable  at  all,  except  by  Salamanders.  He  cannot  be 
one  of  the  stars  with  which  I  have  established  familiar  ac- 
quaintance, associated  with  fancies  and  dreams  and  hopes,  as 
most  of  us  do,  for  instance,  with  Hesperus,  the  moon's  har- 


THE  PARISIANS.  203 

binger  and  comrade.  But  amid  all  those  stars  there  is  one  — 
not  Hesperus  —  which  has  always  had  from  my  childhood  a 
mysterious  fascination  for  me.  Knowing  as  little  of  astrol- 
ogy as  I  do  of  astronomy,  when  I  gaze  upon  that  star  I  be- 
come credulously  superstitious,  and  fancy  it  has  an  influence 
on  my  life.  Have  you,  too,  any  favourite  star?" 

"Yes,"  said  Isaura;  "and  I  distinguish  it  now,  but  I  do 
not  even  know  its  name,  and  never  would  ask  it." 

"  So  like  me.  I  would  not  vulgarize  my  unknown  source  of 
beautiful  illusions  by  giving  it  the  name  it  takes  in  technical 
catalogues.  For  fear  of  learning  that  name  I  never  have 
pointed  it  out  to  any  one  before.  I  too  at  this  moment  dis- 
tinguish it  apart  from  all  its  brotherhood.  Tell  me  which 
is  yours." 

Isaura  pointed  and  explained.  The  Englishman  was  star- 
tled. By  what  strange  coincidence  could  they  both  have  sin- 
gled out  from  all  the  host  of  heaven  the  same  favourite  star? 

"  Cher  Vane,"  cried  Savarin,  "Colonel  Morley  declares  that 
what  America  is  to  the  terrestrial  system  Sirius  is  to  the  heav- 
enly. America  is  to  extinguish  Europe,  and  then  Sirius  is  to 
extinguish  the  world." 

"Not  for  some  millions  of  years;  time  to  look  about  us," 
said  the  Colonel,  gravely.  "  But  I  certainly  differ  from  those 
who  maintain  that  Sirius  recedes  from  us.  I  say  that  he  ap- 
proaches. The  principles  of  a  body  so  enlightened  must  be 
those  of  progress."  Then  addressing  Graham  in  English,  he 
added,  "there  will  be  a  mulling  in  this  fogified  planet  some 
day,  I  predicate.  Sirius  is  a  keener!  " 

"  I  have  not  imagination  lively  enough  to  interest  myself  in 
the  destinies  of  Sirius  in  connection  with  our  planet  at  a  date 
so  remote,"  said  Graham,  smiling.  Then  he  added  in  a  whis- 
per to  Isaura,  "My  imagination  does  not  carry  me  further 
than  to  wonder  whether  this  day  twelvemonth  —  the  8th  of 
July  —  we  two  shall  both  be  singling  out  that  same  star,  and 
gazing  on  it  as  now,  side  by  side." 

This  was  the  sole  utterance  of  that  sentiment  in  which  the 
romance  of  love  is  so  rich  that  the  Englishman  addressed  to 
Isaura  during  those  memorable  summer  days  at  Enghien. 


204  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTEK    V. 

THE  next  morning  the  party  broke  up.  Letters  had  been 
delivered  both  to  Savarin  and  to  Graham,  which,  even  had 
the  day  for  departure  not  been  fixed,  would  have  summoned 
them  away.  On  reading  his  letter,  Savarin' s  brow  became 
clouded.  He  made  a  sign  to  his  wife  after  breakfast,  and 
wandered  away  with  her  down  an  alley  in  the  little  garden. 
His  trouble  was  of  that  nature  which  a  wife  either  soothes 
or  aggravates,  according  sometimes  to  her  habitual  frame  of 
mind,  sometimes  to  the  mood  of  temper  in  which  she  may 
chance  to  be, —  a  household  trouble,  a  pecuniary  trouble. 

Savarin  was  by  no  means  an  extravagant  man.  His  mode 
of  living,  though  elegant  and  hospitable,  was  modest  com- 
pared to  that  of  many  French  authors  inferior  to  himself  in 
the  fame  which  at  Paris  brings  a  very  good  return  in  francs ; 
but  his  station  itself  as  the  head  of  a  powerful  literary  clique 
necessitated  many  expenses  which  were  too  congenial  to  his 
extreme  good-nature  to  be  regulated  by  strict  prudence.  His 
hand  was  always  open  to  distressed  writers  and  struggling  ar- 
tists, and  his  sole  income  was  derived  from  his  pen  and  a 
journal  in  which  he  was  chief  editor  and  formerly  sole  pro- 
prietor. But  that  journal  had  of  late  not  prospered.  He  had 
sold  or  pledged  a  considerable  share  in  the  proprietorship. 
He  had  been  compelled  also  to  borrow  a  sum  large  for  him, 
and  the  debt  obtained  from  a  retired  bourgeois  who  lent  out 
his  moneys  "byway,"  he  said,  "of  maintaining  an  excitement 
and  interest  in  life,"  would  in  a  few  days  become  due.  The 
letter  was  not  from  that  creditor ;  but  it  was  from  his  pub- 
lisher, containing  a  very  disagreeable  statement  of  accounts, 
pressing  for  settlement,  and  declining  an  offer  of  Savarin  for 
a  new  book  (not  yet  begun)  except  upon  terms  that  the  author 
valued  himself  too  highly  to  accept.  Altogether,  the  situa- 
tion was  unpleasant.  There  were  many  times  in  which  Ma- 


THE  PARISIANS.  205 

dame  Savarin  presumed  to  scold  her  distinguished  husband 
for  his  want  of  prudence  and  thrift.  But  those  were  never 
the  times  when  scolding  could  be  of  no  use.  It  could  clearly 
be  of  no  use  now.  Now  was  the  moment  to  cheer  and  encour- 
age him;  to  reassure  him  as  to  his  own  uudiminished  powers 
and  popularity,  for  he  talked  dejectedly  of  himself  as  obsolete 
and  passing  out  of  fashion;  to  convince  him  also  of  the  im- 
possibility that  the  ungrateful  publisher  whom  Savarin's 
more  brilliant  successes  had  enriched  could  encounter  the 
odium  of  hostile  proceedings ;  and  to  remind  him  of  all  the 
authors,  all  the  artists,  whom  he  in  their  earlier  difficulties 
had  so  liberally  assisted,  and  from  whom  a  sum  sufficing  to 
pay  off  the  bourgeois  creditor  when  the  day  arrived  could  now 
be  honourably  asked  and  would  be  readily  contributed.  In 
this  last  suggestion  the  homely  prudent  good-sense  of  Ma- 
dame Savarin  failed  her.  She  did  not  comprehend  that  deli- 
cate pride  of  honour  which,  with  all  his  Parisian  frivolities 
and  cynicism,  dignified  the  Parisian  man  of  genius.  Savarin 
could  not,  to  save  his  neck  from  a  rope,  have  sent  round  the 
begging-hat  to  friends  whom  he  had  obliged.  Madame  Savarin 
was  one  of  those  women  with  large-lobed  ears,  who  can  be 
wonderfully  affectionate,  wonderfully  sensible,  admirable 
wives  and  mothers,  and  yet  are  deficient  in  artistic  sympa- 
thies with  artistic  natures.  Still,  a  really  good  honest  wife 
is  such  an  incalculable  blessing  to  her  lord,  that,  at  the  end 
of  the  talk  in  the  solitary  allee,  this  man  of  exquisite  finesse, 
of  the  undefinably  high-bred  temperament,  and,  alas!  the 
painful  morbid  susceptibility,  which  belongs  to  the  genuine 
artistic  character,  emerged  into  the  open  sunlit  lawn  with  his 
crest  uplifted,  his  lip  curved  upward  in  its  joyous  mockery, 
and  perfectly  persuaded  that  somehow  or  other  he  should  put 
down  the  offensive  publisher,  and  pay  off  the  unoffending 
creditor  when  the  day  for  payment  came.  Still  he  had  judg- 
ment enough  to  know  that  to  do  this  he  must  get  back  to 
Paris,  and  could  not  dawdle  away  precious  hours  in  discuss- 
ing the  principles  of  poetry  with  Graham  Vane. 

There  was  only  one  thing,  apart  from  "the  begging-hat," 
in  which  Savarin  dissented  from  his  wife.     She  suggested  his 


THE  PARISIANS. 

starting  a  new  journal  in  conjunction  with  Gustave  Rameau, 
upon  whose  genius  and  the  expectations  to  be  formed  from  it 
(here  she  was  tacitly  thinking  of  Isaura  wedded  to  Rameau, 
and  more  than  a  Malibran  on  the  stage)  she  insisted  vehe- 
mently. Savarin  did  not  thus  estimate  Gustave  Rameau, — 
thought  him  a  clever,  promising  young  writer  in  a  very  bad 
school  of  writing,  who  might  do  well  some  day  or  other.  But 
that  a  Rameau  could  help  a  Savarin  to  make  a  fortune !  No ; 
at  that  idea  he  opened  his  eyes,  patted  his  wife's  shoulder, 
and  called  her  "enfant." 

Graham's  letter  was  from  M.  Renard,  and  ran  thus :  — 

MONSIEUR,  —  I  had  the  honour  to  call  at  your  apartment  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  write  this  line  to  the  address  given  to  me  by  your  concierge  to 
say  that  I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  ascertain  that  the  relation  of 
the  missing  lady  is  now  at  Paris.  I  shall  hold  myself  in  readiness  to 
attend  your  summons.  Deign  to  accept,  Monsieur,  the  assurance  of  my 
profound  consideration.  J.  RENARD. 

This  communication  sufficed  to  put  Graham  into  very  high 
spirits.  Anything  that  promised  success  to  his  research 
seemed  to  deliver  his  thoughts  from  a  burden  and  his  will 
from  a  fetter.  Perhaps  in  a  few  days  he  might  frankly  and 
honourably  say  to  Isaura  words  which  would  justify  his  re- 
taining longer,  and  pressing  more  ardently,  the  delicate  hand 
which  trembled  in  his  as  they  took  leave. 

On  arriving  at  Paris,  Graham  despatched  a  note  to  M. 
Renard  requesting  to  see  him,  and  received  a  brief  line  in 
reply  that  M.  Renard  feared  he  should  be  detained  on  other 
and  important  business  till  the  evening,  but  hoped  to  call  at 
eight  o'clock.  A  few  minutes  before  that  hour  he  entered 
Graham's  apartment. 

"  You  have  discovered  the  uncle  of  Louise  Duval ! "  ex- 
claimed Graham;  "of  course  you  mean  M.  de  Maule'on,  and 
he  is  at  Paris?  " 

"  True  so  far,  Monsieur ;  but  do  not  be  too  sanguine  as  to 
the  results  of  the  information  I  can  give  you.  Permit  me,  as 
briefly  as  possible,  to  state  the  circumstances.  When  you  ac- 
quainted me  with  the  fact  that  M.  de  Mauleon  was  the  uncle 


THE  PARISIANS.  207 

of  Louise  Duval,  I  told  you  that  I  was  not  without  hopes  of 
finding  him  out,  though  so  long  absent  from  Paris.  I  will 
now  explain  why.  Some  months  ago,  one  of  my  colleagues 
engaged  in  the  political  department  (which  I  am  not)  was 
sent  to  Lyons,  in  consequence  of  some  suspicions  conceived 
by  the  loyal  authorities  there  of  a  plot  against  the  emperor's 
life.  The  suspicions  were  groundless,  the  plot  a  mare's  nest. 
But  my  colleague's  attention  was  especially  drawn  towards  a 
man  not  mixed  up  with  the  circumstances  from  which  a  plot 
had  been  inferred,  but  deemed  in  some  way  or  other  a  danger- 
ous enemy  to  the  Government.  Ostensibly,  he  exercised  a 
modest  and  small  calling  as  a  sort  of  courtier  or  agent  de 
change;  but  it  was  noticed  that  certain  persons  familiarly 
frequenting  his  apartment,  or  to  whose  houses  he  used  to  go 
at  night,  were  disaffected  to  the  Government, —  not  by  any 
means  of  the  lowest  rank, —  some  of  them  rich  malcontents 
who  had  been  devoted  Orleanists ;  others,  disappointed  aspi- 
rants to  office  or  the  'cross; '  one  or  two  well-born  and  opu- 
lent fanatics  dreaming  of  another  Kepublic.  Certain  very 
able  articles  in  the  journals  of  the  excitable  Midi,  though 
bearing  another  signature,  were  composed  or  dictated  by  this 
man, —  articles  evading  the  censure  and  penalties  of  the  law, 
but  very  mischievous  in  their  tone.  All  who  had  come  into 
familiar  communication  with  this  person  were  impressed  with 
a  sense  of  his  powers ;  and  also  with  a  vague  belief  that  he 
belonged  to  a  higher  class  in  breeding  and  education  than 
that  of  a  petty  agent  de  change.  My  colleague  set  himself  to 
watch  the  man,  and  took  occasions  of  business  at  his  little 
office  to  enter  into  talk  with  him.  Not  by  personal  appear- 
ance, but  by  voice,  he  came  to  a  conclusion  that  the  man  was 
not  wholly  a  stranger  to  him, — a  peculiar  voice  with  a  slight 
Xorman  breadth  of  pronunciation,  though  a  Parisian  accent; 
a  voice  very  low,  yet  very  distinct;  very  masculine,  yet  very 
gentle.  My  colleague  was  puzzled  till  late  one  evening  he 
observed  the  man  coming  out  of  the  house  of  one  of  these  rich 
malcontents,  the  rich  malcontent  himself  accompanying  him. 
My  colleague,  availing  himself  of  the  dimness  of  light,  as  the 
two  passed  into  a  lane  which  led  to  the  agent's  apartment, 


208  THE  PARISIANS. 

contrived  to  keep  close  behind  and  listen  to  their  conversa- 
tion; but  of  this  he  heard  nothing, —  only,  when  at  the  end 
of  the  lane,  the  rich  man  turned  abruptly,  shook  his  compan- 
ion warmly  by  the  hand,  and  parted  from  him,  saying,  'Never 
fear;  all  shall  go  right  with  you,  my  dear  Victor.'  At  the 
sound  of  that  name  'Victor,'  my  colleague's  memories,  before 
so  confused,  became  instantaneously  clear.  Previous  to  en- 
tering our  service,  he  had  been  in  the  horse  business,  a  vo- 
tary of  the  turf;  as  such  he  had  often  seen  the  brilliant 
'sportman,'  Victor  de  Mauleon;  sometimes  talked  to  him. 
Yes,  that  was  .the  voice,  —  the  slight  Norman  intonation 
(Victor  de  Mauleon's  father  had  it  strongly,  and  Victor  had 
passed  some  of  his  early  childhood  in  Normandy),  the  subdued 
modulation  of  speech  which  had  made  so  polite  the  offence  to 
men,  or  so  winning  the  courtship  to  women,  —  that  was  Victor 
de  Mauleon.  But  why  there  in  that  disguise?  What  was 
his  real  business  and  object?  My  confrere  had  no  time  al- 
lowed to  him  to  prosecute  such  inquiries.  Whether  Victor 
or  the  rich  malcontent  had  observed  him  at  their  heels,  and 
feared  he  might  have  overheard  their  words,  I  know  not;  but 
the  next  day  appeared  in  one  of  the  popular  journals  circulat- 
ing among  the  ouvriers  a  paragraph  stating  that  a  Paris  spy 
had  been  seen  at  Lyons,  warning  all  honest  men  against  his 
machinations,  and  containing  a  tolerably  accurate  description 
of  his  person.  And  that  very  day,  on  venturing  forth,  my 
estimable  colleague  suddenly  found  himself  hustled  by  a  fero- 
cious throng,  from  whose  hands  he  was  with  great  difficulty 
rescued  by  the  municipal  guard.  He  left  Lyons  that  night; 
and  for  recompense  of  his  services  received  a  sharp  reprimand 
from  his  chief.  He  had  committed  the  worst  offence  in  our 
profession,  trap  de  zele.  Having  only  heard  the  outlines  of 
this  story  from  another,  I  repaired  to  my  confrere  after  my 
last  interview  with  Monsieur,  and  learned  what  I  now  tell 
you  from  his  own  lips.  As  he  was  not  in  my  branch  of  the 
service,  I  could  not  order  him  to  return  to  Lyons;  and  I 
doubt  whether  his  chief  would  have  allowed  it.  But  I  went 
to  Lyons  myself,  and  there  ascertained  that  our  supposed 
Vicomte  had  left  that  town  for  Paris  some  months  ago,  not 


THE  PARISIAXS.  209 

long  after  the  adventure  of  my  colleague.  The  man  bore  a 
very  good  character  generally,  —  was  said  to  be  very  honest 
and  inoffensive ;  and  the  notice  taken  of  him  by  persons  of 
higher  rank  was  attributed  generally  to  a  respect  for  his  tal- 
ents, and  not  on  account  of  any  sympathy  in  political  opin- 
ions. I  found  that  the  confrere  mentioned,  and  who  alone 
could  identify  M.  de  Mauleon  in  the  disguise  which  the  Vi- 
comte  had  assumed,  was  absent  on  one  of  those  missions 
abroad  in  which  he  is  chiefly  employed.  I  had  to  wait  for 
his  return,  and  it  was  only  the  day  before  yesterday  that  I 
obtained  the  following  particulars.  M.  de  Mauleon  bears  the 
same  name  as  he  did  at  Lyons, — that  name  is  Jean  Lebeau; 
he  exercises  the  ostensible  profession  of  a  'letter- writer,'  and 
a  sort  of  adviser  on  business  among  the  workmen  and  petty 
bourgeoisie,  and  he  nightly  frequents  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques, 

Hue  ,  Faubourg  Montmartre.  It  is  not  yet  quite  half- 

past  eight,  and,  no  doubt,  you  could  see  him  at  the  cafe  this 
very  night,  if  you  thought  proper  to  go." 

"Excellent!     I  will  go!     Describe  him!  " 

"Alas!  that  is  exactly  what  I  cannot  do  at  present;  for 
after  hearing  what  I  now  tell  you,  I  put  the  same  request  you 
do  to  my  colleague,  when,  before  he  could  answer  me,  he  was 
summoned  to  the  bureau  of  his  chief,  promising  to  return  and 
give  me  the  requisite  description.  He  did  not  return;  and  I 
find  that  he  was  compelled,  on  quitting  his  chief,  to  seize  the 
first  train  starting  for  Lille  upon  an  important  political  inves- 
tigation which  brooked  no  delay.  He  will  be  back  in  a  few 
days,  and  then  Monsieur  shall  have  the  description." 

"Xay;  I  think  I  will  seize  time  by  the  forelock,  and  try 
my  chance  to-night.  If  the  man  be  really  a  conspirator,  and 
it  looks  likely  enough,  who  knows  but  what  he  may  see  quick 
reason  to  take  alarm  and  vanish  from  Paris  at  any  hour? 

Cafe  Jean  Jacques,  Rue ;  I  will  go.  Stay;  you  have  seen 

Victor  de  Mauleon  in  his  youth:  what  was  he  like  then?" 

"Tall,  slender,  but  broad-shouldered,  very  erect,  carrying 
his  head  high,  a  profusion  of  dark  curls,  a  small  black  mus- 
tache, fair  clear  complexion,  light-coloured  eyes  with  dark 
lashes,  fort  bel  homme.  But  he  will  not  look  like  that  now." 

VOL.  I.  —  14 


210  THE  PARISIANS. 

"His  present  age?" 

"Forty-seven  or  forty-eight.  But  before  you  go,  I  must 
beg  you  to  consider  well  what  you  are  about.  It  is  evident 
that  M.  de  Mauleon  has  some  strong  reason,  whatever  it  be, 
for  merging  his  identity  in  that  of  Jean  Lebeau.  I  presume, 
therefore,  that  you  could  scarcely  go  up  to  M.  Lebeau,  when 
you  have  discovered  him,  and  say,  'Pray,  Monsieur  le  Vi- 
comte,  can  you  give  me  some  tidings  of  your  niece,  Louise 
Duval?'  If  you  thus  accosted  him,  you  might  possibly  bring 
some  danger  on  yourself,  but  you  would  certainly  gain  no 
information  from  him." 

"True." 

"On  the  other  hand,  if  you  make  his  acquainance  as  M. 
Lebeau,  how  can  you  assume  him  to  know  anything  about 
Louise  Duval?" 

"Parbleu!  Monsieur  Kenard,  you  try  to  toss  me  aside 
on  both  horns  of  the  dilemma;  but  it  seems  to  me  that,  if 
I  once  make  his  acquaintance  as  M.  Lebeau,  I  might  gradually 
and  cautiously  feel  my  way  as  to  the  best  mode  of  putting  the 
question  to  which  I  seek  reply.  I  suppose,  too,  that  the  man 
must  be  in  very  poor  circumstances  to  adopt  so  humble  a  calling, 
and  that  a  small  sum  of  money  may  smooth  all  difficulties." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  M.  Kenard,  thoughtfully; 
"but  grant  that  money  may  do  so,  and  grant  also  that  the 
Vicomte,  being  a  needy  man,  has  become  a  very  unscrupulous 
one, —  is  there  anything  in  your  motives  for  discovering  Louise 
Duval  which  might  occasion  you  trouble  and  annoyance,  if  it 
were  divined  by  a  needy  and  unscrupulous  man;  anything 
which  might  give  him  a  power  of  threat  or  exaction?  Mind, 
I  am  not  asking  you  to  tell  me  any  secret  you  have  reasons 
for  concealing,  but  I  suggest  that  it  might  be  prudent  if  you 
did  not  let  M.  Lebeau  know  your  real  name  and  rank;  if,  in 
short,  you  could  follow  his  example,  and  adopt  a  disguise. 
But  no;  when  I  think  of  it,  you  would  doubtless  be  so  un- 
practised in  the  art  of  disguise  that  he  would  detect  you  at 
once  to  be  other  than  you  seem;  and  if  suspecting  you  of  spy- 
ing into  his  secrets,  and  if  those  secrets  be  really  of  a 
political  nature,  your  very  life  might  not  be  safe." 


THE  PARISIANS.  211 

"Thank  you  for  your  hint;  the  disguise  is  an  excellent 
idea,  and  combines  amusement  with  precaution.  That  this 
Victor  de  Mauleon  must  be  a  very  unprincipled  and  danger- 
ous man  is,  I  think,  abundantly  clear.  Granting  that  he  was 
innocent  of  all  design  of  robbery  in  the  affair  of  the  jewels, 
still,  the  offence  which  he  did  own  —  that  of  admitting  him- 
self at  night  by  a  false  key  into  the  rooms  of  a  wife,  whom 
he  sought  to  surprise  or  terrify  into  dishonour  —  was  a  vil- 
lanous  action;  and  his  present  course  of  life  is  sufficiently 
mysterious  to  warrant  the  most  unfavourable  supposition. 
Besides,  there  is  another  motive  for  concealing  my  name  from 
him :  you  say  that  he  once  had  a  duel  with  a  Vane,  who  was 
very  probably  my  father,  and  I  have  no  wish  to  expose  my- 
self to  the  chance  of  his  turning  up  in  London  some  day,  and 
seeking  to  renew  there  the  acquaintance  that  I  had  courted  at 
Paris.  As  for  my  skill  in  playing  any  part  I  may  assume, 
do  not  fear;  I  am  no  novice  in  that.  In  my  younger  days  I 
was  thought  clever  in  private  theatricals,  especially  in  the 
transformations  of  appearance  which  belong  to  light  comedy 
and  farce.  Wait  a  few  minutes,  and  you  shall  see." 

Graham  then  retreated  into  his  bedroom,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  reappeared  so  changed,  that  Renard  at  first  glance 
took  him  for  a  stranger.  He  had  doffed  his  dress  —  which 
habitually,  when  in  Capitals,  was  characterized  by  the  quiet, 
indefinable  elegance  that  to  a  man  of  the  great  world,  high- 
bred and  young,  seems  "to  the  manner  born"  —  for  one  of 
those  coarse  suits  which  Englishmen  are  wont  to  wear  in 
their  travels,  and  by  which  they  are  represented  in  French 
or  German  caricatures, —  loose  jacket  of  tweed  with  redundant 
pockets,  waistcoat  to  match,  short  dust-coloured  trousers. 
He  had  combed  his  hair  straight  over  his  forehead,  which,  as 
I  have  said  somewhere  before,  appeared  in  itself  to  alter  the 
character  of  his  countenance,  and,  without  any  resort  to 
paints  or  cosmetics,  had  somehow  or  other  given  to  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face  an  impudent,  low-bred  expression,  with  a 
glass  screwed  on  to  his  right  eye, —  such  a  look  as  a  cockney 
journeyman,  wishing  to  pass  for  a  "swell"  about  town,  may 
cast  on  a  servant-maid  in  the  pit  of  a  suburban  theatre. 


212  THE  PARISIANS. 

"Will  it  do,  old  fellow?"  lie  exclaimed,  in  a  rollicking, 
swaggering  tone  of  voice,  speaking  French  with  a  villanous 
British  accent. 

"Perfectly,"  said  Renard,  laughing.  "I  offer  my  compli- 
ments, and  if  ever  you  are  ruined,  Monsieur,  I  will  promise 
you  a  place  in  our  police.  Only  one  caution, — take  care  not 
to  overdo  your  part." 

"Eight.     A  quarter  to  nine;  I 'm  off." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THERE  is  generally  a  brisk  exhilaration  of  spirits  in  the  re- 
turn to  any  special  amusement  or  light  accomplishment  as- 
sociated with  the  pleasant  memories  of  earlier  youth;  and 
remarkably  so,  I  believe,  when  the  amusement  or  accomplish- 
ment has  been  that  of  the  amateur  stage-player.  Certainly  I 
have  known  persons  of  very  grave  pursuits,  of  very  dignified 
character  and  position,  who  seem  to  regain  the  vivacity  of 
boyhood  when  disguising  look  and  voice  for  a  part  in  some 
drawing-room  comedy  or  charade.  I  might  name  statesmen  of 
solemn  repute  rejoicing  to  raise  and  to  join  in  a  laugh  at  their 
expense  in  such  travesty  of  their  habitual  selves. 

The  reader  must  not  therefore  be  surprised,  nor,  I  trust, 
deem  it  inconsistent  with  the  more  serious  attributes  of  Gra- 
ham's character,  if  the  Englishman  felt  the  sort  of  joyful  ex- 
citement I  describe,  as,  in  his  way  to  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques, 
he  meditated  the  role  he  had  undertaken;  and  the  joyousness 
was  heightened  beyond  the  mere  holiday  sense  of  humouristic 
pleasantry  by  the  sanguine  hope  that  much  to  effect  his  lasting 
happiness  might  result  from  the  success  of  the  object  for 
which  his  disguise  was  assumed. 

It  was  just  twenty  minutes  past  nine  when  he  arrived  at 
the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques.  He  dismissed  the  fiacre  and  entered. 


THE  PARISIANS.  213 

The  apartment  devoted  to  customers  comprised  two  large 
rooms.  The  first  was  the  cafe  properly  speaking;  the  second, 
opening  on  it,  was  the  billiard-room.  Conjecturing  that  he 
should  probably  find  the  person  of  whom  he  was  in  quest  em- 
ployed at  the  billiard-table,  Graham  passed  thither  at  once. 
A  tall  man,  who  might  be  seven-and-forty,  with  a  long  black 
beard,  slightly  grizzled,  was  at  play  with  a  young  man  of 
perhaps  twenty-eight,  who  gave  him  odds, —  as  better  players 
of  twenty-eight  ought  to  give  odds  to  a  player,  though  orig- 
inally of  equal  force,  whose  eye  is  not  so  quick,  whose  hand 
is  not  so  steady,  as  they  were  twenty  years  ago.  Said  Graham 
to  himself,  "The  bearded  man  is  my  Vicomte."  He  called 
for  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  seated  himself  on  a  bench  at  the  end 
of  the  room. 

The  bearded  man  was  far  behind  in  the  game.  It  was  his 
turn  to  play ;  the  balls  were  placed  in  the  most  awkward  po- 
sition for  him.  Graham  himself  was  a  fair  billiard-player, 
both  in  the  English  and  the  French  game.  He  said  to  him- 
self, "No  man  who  can  make  a  cannon  there  should  accept 
odds."  The  bearded  man  made  a  cannon;  the  bearded  man 
continued  to  make  cannons ;  the  bearded  man  did  not  stop  till 
he  had  won  the  game.  The  gallery  of  spectators  was  enthu- 
siastic. Taking  care  to  speak  in  very  bad,  very  English- 
French,  Graham  expressed  to  one  of  the  enthusiasts  seated 
beside  him  his  admiration  of  the  bearded  man's  playing,  and 
ventured  to  ask  if  the  bearded  man  were  a  professional  or  an 
amateur  player. 

"Monsieur,"  replied  the  enthusiast,  taking  a  short  cutty- 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  "  it  is  an  amateur,  who  has  been  a  great 
player  in  his  day,  and  is  so  proud  that  he  always  takes  less 
odds  than  he  ought  of  a  younger  man.  It  is  not  once  in  a 
month  that  he  comes  out  as  he  has  done  to-night;  but  to-night 
he  has  steadied  his  hand.  He  has  had  six  petits  verres." 

"Ah,  indeed!     Do  you  know  his  name?" 

"I  should  think  so:  he  buried  my  father,  my  two  aunts, 
and  my  wife." 

"Buried?"  said  Graham,  more  and  more  British  in  his  ac- 
cent; "I  don't  understand." 


214  THE  PARISIANS. 

"Monsieur,  you  are  English." 

"I  confess  it." 

"And  a  stranger  to  the  Faubourg  Montmartre." 

"True." 

"Or  you  would  have  heard  of  M.  Giraud,  the  liveliest 
member  of  the  State  Company  for  conducting  funerals.  They 
are  going  to  play  La  Poule." 

Much  disconcerted,  Graham  retreated  into  the  cafe,  and 
seated  himself  haphazard  at  one  of  the  small  tables.  Glanc- 
ing round  the  room,  he  saw  no  one  in  whom  he  could  con- 
jecture the  once  brilliant  Vicomte. 

The  company  appeared  to  him  sufficiently  decent,  and 
especially  what  may  be  called  local.  There  were  some  blouses 
drinking  wine,  no  doubt  of  the  cheapest  and  thinnest;  some 
in  rough,  coarse  dresses,  drinking  beer.  These  were  evi- 
dently English,  Belgian,  or  German  artisans.  At  one  table, 
four  young  men,  who  looked  like  small  journeymen,  were  play- 
ing cards.  At  three  other  tables,  men  older,  better  dressed, 
probably  shop-keepers,  were  playing  dominos.  Graham  scru- 
tinized these  last,  but  among  them  all  could  detect  no  one 
corresponding  to  his  ideal  of  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon. 
"  Probably, "  thought  he,  "  I  am  too  late,  or  perhaps  he  will 
not  be  here  this  evening.  At  all  events,  I  will  wait  a  quarter 
of  an  hour."  Then,  the  gar$on  approaching  his  table,  he 
deemed  it  necessary  to  call  for  something,  and,  still  in  strong 
English  accent,  asked  for  lemonade  and  an  evening  journal. 
The  gar f  on  nodded  and 'went  his  way.  A  monsieur  at  the 
round  table  next  his  own  politely  handed  to  him  the  "  Galig- 
nani,"  saying  in  very  good  English,  though  unmistakably  the 
good  English  of  a  Frenchman,  "  The  English  journal,  at  your 
service." 

Graham  bowed  his  head,  accepted  the  "Galignani,"  and  in- 
spected his  courteous  neighbour.  A  more  respectable-looking 
man  no  Englishman  could  see  in  an  English  country  town. 
He  wore  an  unpretending  flaxen  wig,  with  limp  whiskers 
that  met  at  the  chin,  and  might  originally  have  been  the 
same  colour  as  the  wig,  but  were  now  of  a  pale  gray, —  no 
beard,  no  mustache.  He  was  dressed  with  the  scrupulous 


THE  PARISIANS.  215 

cleanliness  of  a  sober  citizen, —  a  high  white  neckcloth,  with  a 
large  old-fashioned  pin,  containing  a  little  knot  of  hair  covered 
with  glass  or  crystal,  and  bordered  with  a  black  framework, 
in  which  were  inscribed  letters, — evidently  a  mourning  pin, 
hallowed  to  the  memory  of  lost  spouse  or  child, —  a  man  who, 
in  England,  might  be  the  mayor  of  a  cathedral  town,  at  least 
the  town-clerk.  He  seemed  suffering  from  some  infirmity  of 
vision,  for  he  wore  green  spectacles.  The  expression  of  his 
face  was  very  mild  and  gentle ;  apparently  he  was  about  sixty 
years  old, —  somewhat  more. 

Graham  took  kindly  to  his  neighbour,  insomuch  that,  in 
return  for  the  "Galignani,"  he  offered  him  a  cigar,  lighting 
one  himself. 

His  neighbour  refused  politely. 

"Merci!  I  never  smoke,  never;  mon  mddecin  forbids  it.  If 
I  could  be  tempted,  it  would  be  by  an  English  cigar.  Ah, 
how  you  English  beat  us  in  all  things, — your  ships,  your 
iron,  your  tabac, — which  you  do  not  grow!" 

This  speech  rendered  literally  as  we  now  render  it  may 
give  the  idea  of  a  somewhat  vulgar  speaker.  But  there  was 
something  in  the  man's  manner,  in  his  smile,  in  his  courtesy, 
which  did  not  strike  Graham  as  vulgar;  on  the  contrary,  he 
thought  within  himself,  "  How  instinctive  to  all  Frenchmen 
good  breeding  is !  " 

Before,  however,  Graham  had  time  to  explain  to  his  amia- 
ble neighbour  the  politico-economical  principle  according  to 
which  England,  growing  no  tobacco,  had  tobacco  much  better 
than  France,  which  did  grow  it,  a  rosy  middle-aged  monsieur 
made  his  appearance,  saying  hurriedly  to  Graham's  neigh- 
bour, "  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  late,  but  there  is  still  a  good  half -hour 
before  us  if  you  will  give  me  my  revenge." 

"Willingly,  Monsieur  Georges.      Gar f on,  the  dominos." 

"Have  you  been  playing  at  billiards?"  asked  M.  Georges. 

"Yes,  two  games." 

"With  success?" 

"  I  won  the  first,  and  lost  the  second  through  the  defect  of 
my  eyesight;  the  game  depended  on  a  stroke  which  would 
have  been  easy  to  an  infant, — I  missed  it." 


216  THE  PARISIANS. 

Here  the  dominos  arrived,  and  M.  Georges  began  shuffling 
them;  the  other  turned  to  Graham  and  asked  politely  if  he 
understood  the  game. 

"A  little,  but  not  enough  to  comprehend  why  it  is  said  to 
require  so  much  skill." 

"It  is  chiefly  an  affair  of  memory  with  me;  but  M.  Georges, 
my  opponent,  has  the  talent  of  combination,  which  I  have 
not." 

"Nevertheless,"  replied  M.  Georges,  gruffly,  "you  are  not 
easily  beaten;  it  is  for  you  to  play  first,  Monsieur  Lebeau." 

Graham  almost  started.  Was  it  possible!  This  mild, 
limp-whiskered,  flaxen-wigged  man  Victor  de  Mauleon,  the 
Don  Juan  of  his  time ;  the  last  person  in  the  room  he  should 
have  guessed.  Yet,  now  examining  his  neighbour  with  more 
attentive  eye,  he  wondered  at  his  stupidity  in  not  having  rec- 
ognized at  once  the  ci-devant  gentilhomme  and  lean  (jargon. 
It  happens  frequently  that  our  imagination  plays  us  this 
trick ;  we  form  to  ourselves  an  idea  of  some  one  eminent  for 
good  or  for  evil, — a  poet,  a  statesman,  a  general,  a  murderer, 
a  swindler,  a  thief.  The  man  is  before  us,  and  our  ideas 
have  gone  into  so  different  a  groove  that  he  does  not  excite  a 
suspicion;  we  are  told  who  he  is,  and  immediately  detect 
a  thousand  things  that  ought  to  have  proved  his  identity. 

Looking  thus  again  with  rectified  vision  at  the  false  Lebeau, 
Graham  observed  an  elegance  and  delicacy  of  feature  which 
might,  in  youth,  have  made  the  countenance  very  handsome, 
and  rendered  it  still  good-looking,  nay,  prepossessing.  He 
now  noticed,  too,  the  slight  Norman  accent,  its  native  harsh- 
ness of  breadth  subdued  into  the  modulated  tones  which  be- 
spoke the  habits  of  polished  society.  Above  all,  as  M. 
Lebeau  moved  his  dominos  with  one  hand,  not  shielding  his 
pieces  with  the  other  (as  M.  Georges  warily  did),  but  allow- 
ing it  to  rest  carelessly  on  the  table,  he  detected  the  hands  of 
the  French  aristocrat, — hands  that  had  never  done  work; 
never  (like  those  of  the  English  noble  of  equal  birth)  been 
embrowned  or  freckled,  or  roughened  or  enlarged  by  early 
practice  in  athletic  sports;  but  hands  seldom  seen  save  in  the 
higher  circles  of  Parisian  life, —  partly  perhaps  of  hereditary 


THE  PARISIANS.  217 

formation,  partly  owing  their  texture  to  great  care  begun  in 
early  youth,  and  continued  mechanically  in  after  life, — with 
long  taper  fingers  and  polished  nails;  white  and  delicate  as 
those  of  a  woman,  but  not  slight,  not  feeble;  nervous  and 
sinewy  as  those  of  a  practised  swordsman. 

Graham  watched  the  play,  and  Lebeau  good-naturedly  ex- 
plained to  him  its  complications  as  it  proceeded ;  though  the 
explanation,  diligently  attended  to  by  M.  Georges,  lost 
Lebeau  the  game. 

The  dominos  were  again  shuffled,  and  during  that  operation 
M.  Georges  said,  "By  the  way,  Monsieur  Lebeau,  you  prom- 
ised to  find  me  a  locataire  for  my  second  floor;  have  you 
succeeded?" 

"jSTot  yet.  Perhaps  you  had  better  advertise  in  "Les 
Petites  Affiches."  You  ask  too  much  for  the  habitues  of  this 
neighbourhood,  —  one  hundred  francs  a  month." 

"  But  the  lodging  is  furnished,  and  well  too,  and  has  four 
rooms.  One  hundred  francs  are  not  much." 

A  thought  flashed  upon  Graham.  "Pardon,  Monsieur,"  he 
said,  "have  you  an  appartement  de  garcon  to  let  furnished?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  a  charming  one.  Are  you  in  search  of 
an  apartment?" 

"  I  have  some  idea  of  taking  one,  but  only  by  the  month. 
I  am  but  just  arrived  at  Paris,  and  I  have  business  which 
may  keep  me  here  a  few  weeks.  I  do  but  require  a  bedroom 
and  a  small  cabinet,  and  the  rent  must  be  modest.  I  am  not 
a  milord." 

"I  am  sure  we  could  arrange,  Monsieur,"  said  M.  Georges, 
"thoiigh  I  could  not  well  divide  my  logement.  But  one  hun- 
dred francs  a  month  is  not  much !  " 

"  I  fear  it  is  more  than  I  can  afford ;  however,  if  you  will 
give  me  your  address,  I  will  call  and  see  the  rooms,  —  say  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  Between  this  and  then,  I  expect  let- 
ters which  may  more  clearly  decide  my  movements." 

"If  the  apartments  suit  you,"  said  M.  Lebeau,  "you  will 
at  least  be  in  the  house  of  a  very  honest  man,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  every  one  who  lets  furnished  apartments. 
The  house,  too,  has  a  concierge,  with  a  handy  wife  who  will 


218  THE  PARISIANS. 

arrange  your  rooms  and  provide  you  with  coffee  —  or  tea, 
which  you  English  prefer  —  if  you  breakfast  at  home." 

Here  M.  Georges  handed  a  card  to  Graham,  and  asked  what 
hour  he  would  call. 

"About  twelve,  if  that  hour  is  convenient,"  said  Graham, 
rising.  "  I  presume  there  is  a  restaurant  in  the  neighbour- 
hood where  I  could  dine  reasonably." 

"Je  crois  bien,  half-a-dozen.  I  can  recommend  to  you  one 
Vwhere  you  can  dine  en  prince  for  thirty  SOILS.  And  if  you  are 
at  Paris  on  business,  and  want  any  letters  written  in  private, 
I  can  also  recommend  to  you  my  friend  here,  M.  Lebeau. 
Ay,  and  on  affairs  his  advice  is  as  good  as  a  lawyer's,  and  his 
fee  a  bagatelle." 

"Don't  believe  all  that  Monsieur  Georges  so  flatteringly 
says  of  me,"  put  in  M.  Lebeau,  with  a  modest  half -smile,  and 
in  English.  "  I  should  tell  you  that  I,  like  yourself,  am  re- 
cently arrived  at  Paris,  having  bought  the  business  and  good- 
will of  my  predecessor  in  the  apartment  I  occupy;  and  it  is 
only  to  the  respect  due  to  his  antecedents,  and  on  the  score  of 
a  few  letters  of  recommendation  which  I  bring  from  Lyons, 
that  I  can  attribute  the  confidence  shown  to  me,  a  stranger  in 
this  neighbourhood.  Still  I  have  some  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  I  am  always  glad  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  the 
English.  I  love  the  English  "  —  he  said  this  with  a  sort  of 
melancholy  earnestness  which  seemed  sincere;  and  then 
added  in  a  more  careless  tone, —  "I  have  met  with  much 
kindness  from  them  in  the  course  of  a  chequered  life." 

"You  seem  a  very  good  fellow, —  in  fact,  a  regular  trump, 
Monsieur  Lebeau,"  replied  Graham,  in  the  same  language. 
"Give  me  your  address.  To  say  truth,  I  am  a  very  poor 
French  scholar,  as  you  must  have  seen,  and  am  awfully 
botherheaded  how  to  manage  some  correspondence  on  matters 
with  which  I  am  entrusted  by  my  employer,  so  that  it  is  a 
lucky  chance  which  has  brought  me  acquainted  with  you." 

M.  Lebeau  inclined  his  head  gracefully,  and  drew  from  a 
very  neat  morocco  case  a  card,  which  Graham  took  and  pock- 
eted. Then  he  paid  for  his  coffee  and  lemonade,  and  returned 
home  well  satisfied  with  the  evening's  adventure. 


THE  PARISIANS.  219 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  next  morning  Graham  sent  for  M.  Kenard,  and  con- 
sulted with,  that  experienced  functionary  as  to  the  details  of 
the  plan  of  action  which  he  had  revolved  during  the  hours  of 
a  sleepless  night. 

"In  conformity  with  your  advice,"  said  he,  "not  to  expose 
myself  to  the  chance  of  future  annoyance,  by  confiding  to  a 
man  so  dangerous  as  the  false  Lebeau  my  name  and  address, 
I  propose  to  take  the  lodging  offered  to  me,  as  Mr.  Lamb,  an 
attorney's  clerk,  commissioned  to  get  in  certain  debts,  and 
transact  other  matters  of  business,  on  behalf  of  his  employ- 
er's clients.  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  difficulty  with  the 
police  in  this  change  of  name,  now  that  passports  for  the 
English  are  not  necessary?" 

"  Certainly  not.    You  will  have  no  trouble  in  that  respect." 

"I  shall  thus  be  enabled  very  naturally  to  improve  ac- 
quaintance with  the  professional  letter-writer,  and  find  an 
easy  opportunity  to  introduce  the  name  of  Louise  Duval.  My 
chief  difficulty,  I  fear,  not  being  a  practical  actor,  will  be  to 
keep  up  consistently  the  queer  sort  of  language  I  have  adopted, 
both  in  French  and  in  English.  I  have  too  sharp  a  critic  in 
a  man  so  consummate  himself  in  stage  trick  and  disguise  as 
M.  Lebeau  not  to  feel  the  necessity  of  getting  through  my 
role  as  quickly  as  I  can.  Meanwhile,  can  you  recommend  me 
to  some  mayasin  where  I  can  obtain  a  suitable  change  of  cos- 
tume? I  can't  always  wear  a  travelling  suit,  and  I  must  buy 
linen  of  coarser  texture  than  mine,  and  with  the  initials  of 
my  new  name  inscribed  on  it." 

"  Quite  right  to  study  such  details ;  I  will  introduce  you  to 
a  magasin  near  the  Temple,  where  you  will  find  all  you 
want." 

"Next,  have  you  any  friends  or  relations  in  the  provinces 
unknown  to  M.  Lebeau,  to  whom  I  might  be  supposed  to 


220  THE  PARISIANS. 

write  about  debts  or  business  matters,  and  from  whom  I 
might  have  replies?" 

"  I  will  think  over  it,  and  manage  that  for  you  very  easily. 
Your  letters  shall  find  their  way  to  me,  and  I  will  dictate  the 
answers." 

After  some  further  conversation  on  that  business,  M.  Eenard 
made  an  appointment  to  meet  Graham  at  a  cafe  near  the 
Temple  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  took  his  departure. 

Graham  then  informed  his  laquals  de  place  that,  though  he 
kept  on  his  lodgings,  he  was  going  into  the  country  for  a  few 
days,  and  should  not  want  the  man's  services  till  he  returned. 
He  therefore  dismissed  and  paid  him  off  at  once,  so  that  the 
laquais  might  not  observe,  when  he  quitted  his  rooms  the 
next  day,  that  he  took  with  him  no  change  of  clothes,  etc. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

GRAHAM  VANE  has  been  for  some  days  in  the  apartment 
rented  of  M.  Georges.  He  takes  it  in  the  name  of  Mr. 
Lamb,  —  a  name  wisely  chosen,  less  common  than  Thompson 
and  Smith,  less  likely  to  be  supposed  an  assumed  name,  yet 
common  enough  not  to  be  able  easily  to  trace  it  to  any  special 
family.  He  appears,  as  he  had  proposed,  in  the  character 
of  an  agent  employed  by  a  solicitor  in  London  to  execute  sun- 
dry commissions  and  to  collect  certain  outstanding  debts. 
There  is  no  need  to  mention  the  name  of  the  solicitor;  if 
there  were,  he  could  give  the  name  of  his  own  solicitor,  to 
whose  discretion  he  could  trust  implicitly.  He  dresses  and 
acts  up  to  his  assumed  character  with  the  skill  of  a  man 
who,  like  the  illustrious  Charles  Fox,  has,  though  in  private 
representations,  practised  the  stage-play  in  which  Demos- 
thenes said  the  triple  art  of  oratory  consisted ;  who  has  seen 
a  great  deal  of  the  world,  and  has  that  adaptability  of  intel- 
lect which  knowledge  of  the  world  lends  to  one  who  is  so 


THE   PARISIANS.  221 

thoroughly  in  earnest  as  to  his  end  that  he  agrees  to  be 
sportive  as  to  his  means. 

The  kind  of  language  he  employs  when  speaking  English  to 
Lebeau  is  that  suited  to  the  role  of  a  dapper  young  underling 
of  vulgar  mind  habituated  to  vulgar  companionships.  I  feel 
it  due,  if  not  to  Graham  himself,  at  least  to  the  memory  of 
the  dignified  orator  whose  name  he  inherits,  so  to  modify  and 
soften  the  hardy  style  of  that  peculiar  diction  in  which  he 
disguises  his  birth  and  disgraces  his  culture,  that  it  is  only 
here  and  there  that  I  can  venture  to  indicate  the  general  tone 
of  it;  but  in  order  to  supply  my  deficiencies  therein,  the 
reader  has  only  to  call  to  mind  the  forms  of  phraseology 
which  polite  novelists  in  vogue,  especially  young-lady  novel- 
ists, ascribe  to  well-born  gentlemen,  and  more  emphatically 
to  those  in  the  higher  ranks  of  the  Peerage.  No  doubt 
Graham,  in  his  capacity  of  critic,  had  been  compelled  to 
read,  in  order  to  review,  those  contributions  to  refined  liter- 
ature, and  had  familiarized  himself  to  a  vein  of  conversation 
abounding  with  "  swell "  and  "  stunner  "  and  "  awfully  jolly, " 
in  its  libel  on  manners  and  outrage  on  taste. 

He  has  attended  nightly  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques;  he  has 
improved  acquaintance  with  M.  Georges  and  M.  Lebeau;  he 
has  played  at  billiards,  he  has  played  at  dominos,  with  the 
latter.  He  has  been  much  surprised  at  the  unimpeachable 
honesty  which  M.  Lebeau  has  exhibited  in  both  these  games. 
In  billiards,  indeed,  a  man  cannot  cheat  except  by  disguising 
his  strength;  it  is  much  the  same  in  dominos, —  it  is  skill 
combined  with  luck,  as  in  whist;  but  in  whist  there  are 
modes  of  cheating  which  dominos  do  not  allow, — you  can't 
mark  a  domino  as  you  can  a  card.  It  was  perfectly  clear  to 
Graham  that  M.  Lebeau  did  not  gain  a  livelihood  by  billiards 
or  dominos  at  the  Caf^  Jean  Jacques.  In  the  former  he  was 
not  only  a  fair  but  a  generous  player.  He  played  exceed- 
ingly well,  despite  his  spectacles;  but  he  gave,  with  some- 
thing of  a  Frenchman's  lofty  fanfaronnade,  larger  odds  to  his 
adversary  than  his  play  justified.  In  dominos,  where  such 
odds  could  not  well  be  given,  he  insisted  on  playing  such 
small  stakes  as  two  or  three  francs  might  cover.  In  short, 


222  THE  PARISIANS. 

M.  Lebeau  puzzled  Graham.  All  about  M.  Lebeau,  his  man- 
ner, his  talk,  was  irreproachable,  and  baffled  suspicion;  ex- 
cept in  this, —  Graham  gradually  discovered  that  the  cafe  had 
a  quasi-political  character.  Listening  to  talkers  round  him, 
he  overheard  much  that  might  well  have  shocked  the  notions 
of  a  moderate  Liberal ;  much  that  held  in  disdain  the  objects 
to  which,  in  1869,  an  English  Eadical  directed  his  aspira- 
tions. Vote  by  ballot,  universal  suffrage,  etc., — such  objects 
the  French  had  already  attained.  By  the  talkers  at  the  Cafe 
Jean  Jacques  they  were  deemed  to  be  the  tricky  contrivances 
of  tyranny.  In  fact,  the  talk  was  more  scornful  of  what  Eng- 
lishmen understand  by  radicalism  or  democracy  than  Graham 
(ever  heard  from  the  lips  of  an  ultra-Tory.  It  assumed  a 
strain  of  philosophy  far  above  the  vulgar  squabbles  of  ordi- 
nary party  politicians,  —  a  philosophy  which  took  for  its 
fundamental  principles  the  destruction  of  religion  and  of  pri- 
vate property.  These  two  objects  seemed  dependent  the  one 
on  the  other.  The  philosophers  of  the  Jean  Jacques  held 
with  that  expounder  of  Internationalism,  Eugene  Dtipont, 
"Nous  ne  voulons  plus  de  religion,  car  les  religions  e'touffent 
1'intelligence."  1  Now  and  then,  indeed,  a  dissentient  voice 
was  raised  as  to  the  existence  of  a  Supreme  Being,  but,  with 
one  exception,  it  soon  sank  into  silence.  No  voice  was  raised 
in  defence  of  private  property.  These  sages  appeared  for  the 
most  part  to  belong  to  the  class  of  ouvriers  or  artisans.  Some 
of  them  were  foreigners, —  Belgian,  German,  English;  all 
seemed  well  off  for  their  calling.  Indeed  they  must  have 
had  comparatively  high  wages,  to  judge  by  their  dress  and 
the  money  they  spent  on  regaling  themselves.  The  language 
of  several  was  well  chosen,  at  times  eloquent.  Some  brought 
with  them  women  who  seemed  respectable,  and  who  often 
joined  in  the  conversation,  especially  when  it  turned  upon 
the  law  of  marriage  as  a  main  obstacle  to  all  personal  liberty 
and  social  improvement.  If  this  was  a  subject  on  which  the 
women  did  not  all  agree,  still  they  discussed  it,  without  prej- 
udice and  with  admirable  sang  froid.  Yet  many  of  them 

1  Discours  par  Eugene  Dupont  k  la  Cloture   du  Congres  de  Bruxelles, 
Sept.  3,  1868. 


THE  PARISIANS.  223 

looked  like  wives  and  mothers.  Now  and  then  a  young  jour- 
neyman brought  with  him  a  young  lady  of  more  doubtful 
aspect,  but  such  a  couple  kept  aloof  from  the  others.  Now 
and  then,  too,  a  man  evidently  of  higher  station  than  that  of 
ouvrier,  and  who  was  received  by  the  philosophers  with  cour- 
tesy and  respect,  joined  one  of  the  tables  and  ordered  a  bowl 
of  punch  for  general  participation.  In  such  occasional  vis- 
itors, Graham,  still  listening,  detected  a  writer  of  the  press ; 
now  and  then,  a  small  artist  or  actor  or  medical  student. 
Among  the  habitues  there  was  one  man,  an  ouvrier,  in  whom 
Graham  could  not  help  feeling  an  interest.  He  was  called 
Monnier,  sometimes  more  familiarly  Armand,  his  baptismal 
appellation.  This  man  had  a  bold  and  honest  expression  of 
countenance.  He  talked  like  one  who,  if  he  had  not  read 
much,  had  thought  much  on  the  subjects  he  loved  to  discuss. 
He  argued  against  the  capital  of  employers  quite  as  ably  as 
Mr.  Mill  has  argued  against  the  rights  of  property  in  land. 
He  was  still  more  eloquent  against  the  laws  of  marriage  and 
heritage.  But  his  was  the  one  voice  not  to  be  silenced  in  fa- 
vour of  a  Supreme  Being.  He  had  at  least  the  courage  of  his 
opinions,  and  was  always  thoroughly  in  earnest.  M.  Lebeau 
seemed  to  know  this  man,  and  honoured  him  with  a  nod  and 
a  smile,  when  passing  by  him  to  the  table  he  generally  occu- 
pied. This  familiarity  with  a  man  of  that  class,  and  of  opin- 
ions so  extreme,  excited  Graham's  curiosity.  One  evening  he 
said  to  Lebeau,  "A  queer  fellow  that  you  have  just  nodded 
to." 

"How  so?" 

"Well,  he  has  queer  notions." 

"Notions  shared,  I  believe,  by  many  of  your  countrymen?" 

"I  should  think  not  many.  Those  poor  simpletons  yon- 
der may  have  caught  them  from  their  French  fellow-work- 
men, but  I  don't  think  that  even  the  gobemouches  in  our 
National  Reform  Society  open  their  mouths  to  swallow  such 
wasps." 

"Yet  I  believe  the  association  to  which  most  of  those 
ouvriers  belong  had  its  origin  in  England." 

"  Indeed !  what  association?  " 


224  THE  PARISIANS. 

"The  International." 

"Ah,  I  have  heard  of  that." 

Lebeau  turned  his  green  spectacles  full  on  Graham's  face 
as  he  said  slowly,  "And  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Graham  prudently  checked  the  disparaging  reply  that  first 
occurred  to  him,  and  said,  "  I  know  so  little  about  it  that  I 
would  rather  ask  you." 

"  I  think  it  might  become  formidable  if  it  found  able  lead- 
ers who  knew  how  to  use  it.  Pardon  me,  how  came  you  to 
know  of  this  cafe  ?  Were  you  recommended  to  it?  " 

"No;  I  happened  to  be  in  this  neighbourhood  on  business, 
and  walked  in,  as  I  might  into  any  other  cafe." 

"You  don't  interest  yourself  in  the  great  social  questions 
which  are  agitated  below  the  surface  of  this  best  of  all  pos- 
sible worlds?" 

"I  can't  say  that  I  trouble  my  head  much  about  them." 

"A  game  at  dominos  before  M.  Georges  arrives?" 

"Willingly.  Is  M.  Georges  one  of  those  agitators  below 
the  surface?" 

"No,  indeed.     It  is  for  you  to  play." 

Here  M.  Georges  arrived,  and  no  further  conversation  on 
political  or  social  questions  ensued. 

Graham  had  already  called  more  than  once  at  M.  Lebeau's 
office,  and  asked  him  to  put  into  good  French  various  letters 
on  matters  of  business,  the  subjects  of  which  had  been  fur- 
nished by  M.  Renard.  The  office  was  rather  imposing  and 
stately,  considering  the  modest  nature  of  M.  Lebeau's  ostensi- 
ble profession.  It  occupied  the  entire  ground-floor  of  a  cor- 
ner house,  with  a  front-door  at  one  angle  and  a  back-door  at 
the  other.  The  anteroom  to  his  cabinet,  and  in  which 
Graham  had  generally  to  wait  some  minutes  before  he  was 
introduced,  was  generally  well  filled,  and  not  only  by  persons 
who,  by  their  dress  and  outward  appearance,  might  be  fairly 
supposed  sufficiently  illiterate  to  require  his  aid  as  polite 
letter-writers,  —  not  only  by  servant-maids  and  grisettes,  by 
sailors,  zouaves,  and  journeymen  workmen, —  but  not  unfre- 
quently  by  clients  evidently  belonging  to  a  higher,  or  at  least 
a  richer,  class  of  society, —  men  with  clothes  made  by  a  fash- 


THE  PARISIANS.  225 

ionable  tailor;  men,  again,  who,  less  fashionably  attired, 
looked  like  opulent  tradesmen  and  fathers  of  well-to-do  fam- 
ilies,—  the  first  generally  young,  the  last  generally  middle- 
aged.  All  these  denizens  of  a  higher  world  were  introduced 
by  a  saturnine  clerk  into  M.  Lebeau's  reception-room,  very 
quickly  and  in  precedence  of  the  ouvriers  and  grisettes. 

"What  can  this  mean?"  thought  Graham;  "is  it  really 
that  this  humble  business  avowed  is  the  cloak  to  some  politi- 
cal conspiracy  concealed, —  the  International  Association?" 
And  so  pondering,  the  clerk  one  day  singled  him  from  the 
crowd  and  admitted  him  into  M.  Lebeau's  cabinet.  Graham 
thought  the  time  had  now  arrived  when  he  might  safely  ap- 
proach the  subject  that  had  brought  him  to  the  Faubourg 
Montmartre. 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  Graham,  speaking  in  the  Eng- 
lish of  a  young  earl  in  our  elegant  novels, —  "you  are  very 
good  to  let  me  in  while  you  have  so  many  swells  and  nobs 
waiting  for  you  in  the  other  room.  But,  I  say,  old  fellow, 
you  have  not  the  cheek  to  tell  me  that  they  want  you  to 
correct  their  cocker  or  spoon  for  them  by  proxy?" 

"Pardon  me,"  answered  M.  Lebeau  in  French,  "if  I  prefer 
my  own  language  in  replying  to  you.  I  speak  the  English  I 
learned  many  years  ago,  and  your  language  in  the  beau  monde, 
to  which  you  evidently  belong,  is  strange  to  me.  You  are 
quite  right,  however,  in  your  surmise  that  I  have  other  cli- 
ents than  those  who,  like  yourself,  think  I  could  correct  their 
verbs  or  their  spelling.  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world, 
—  I  know  something  of  it,  and  something  of  the  law ;  so  that 
many  persons  come  to  me  for  advice  and  for  legal  information 
on  terms  more  moderate  than  those  of  an  avou&.  But  my 
ante-chamber  is  full,  I  am  pressed  for  time;  excuse  me  if 
I  ask  you  to  say  at  once  in  what  I  can  be  agreeable  to  you 
to-day." 

"Ah!"  said  Graham,  assuming  a  very  earnest  look,  "you 
do  know  the  world,  that  is  clear ;  and  you  do  know  the  law 
of  France,  eh?" 

"Yes,  a  little." 

"  What  I  wanted  to  say  at  present  may  have  something  to 

VOL.  I.  —15 


226  THE  PARISIANS. 

do  with  French  law,  and  I  meant  to  ask  you  either  to  recom- 
mend to  me  a  sharp  lawyer,  or  to  tell  me  how  I  can  best  get 
at  your  famous  police  here." 

"Police?" 

"  I  think  I  may  require  the  service  of  one  of  those  officers 
whom  we  in  England  call  detectives;  but  if  you  are  busy 
now,  I  can  call  to-morrow." 

"I  spare  you  two  minutes.  Say  at  once,  dear  Monsieur, 
what  you  want  with  law  or  police." 

"  I  am  instructed  to  find  out  the  address  of  a  certain  Louise 
Duval,  daughter  of  a  drawing-master  named  Adolphe  Duval, 
living  in  the  Rue in  the  year  1848." 

Graham,  while  he  thus  said,  naturally  looked  Lebeau  in 
the  face, — not  pryingly,  not  significantly,  but  as  a  man  gen- 
erally does  look  in  the  face  the  other  man  whom  he  accosts 
seriously.  The  change  in  the  face  he  regarded  was  slight, 
but  it  was  unmistakable.  It  was  the  sudden  meeting  of  the 
eyebrows,  accompanied  with  the  sudden  jerk  of  the  shoulder 
and  bend  of  the  neck,  which  betoken  a  man  taken  by  sur- 
prise, and  who  pauses  to  reflect  before  he  replies.  His  pause 
was  but  momentary, 

"For  what  object  is  this  address  required?" 

"That  I  don't  know;  but  evidently  for  some  advantage  to 
Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval,  if  still  alive,  because  my 
employer  authorizes  me  to  spend  no  less  than  £100  in  ascer- 
taining where  she  is,  if  alive,  or  where  she  was  buried,  if 
dead;  and  if  other  means  fail,  I  am  instructed  to  advertise  to 
the  effect  that  if  Louise  Duval,  or,  in  case  of  her  death,  any 
children  of  hers  living  in  the  year  1849,  will  communicate 
with  some  person  whom  I  may  appoint  at  Paris,  such  intelli- 
gence, authenticated,  may  prove  to  the  advantage  of  the  party 
advertised  for.  I  am,  however,  told  not  to  resort  to  this 
means  without  consulting  either  with  a  legal  adviser  or  the 
police." 

"Hem!  have  you  inquired  at  the  house  where  this  lady 
was,  you  say,  living  in  1848?" 

"Of  course  I  have  done  that;  but  very  clumsily,  I  dare  say, 
through  a  friend,  and  learned  nothing.  But  I  must  not  keep 


THE  PARISIANS.  227 

you  now.  I  think  I  shall  apply  at  once  to  the  police.  What 
should  I  say  when  I  get  to  the  bureau  ?  " 

"Stop,  Monsieur,  stop.  I  do  not  advise  you  to  apply  to 
the  police.  It  would  be  waste  of  time  and  money.  Allow 
me  to  think  over  the  matter.  I  shall  see  you  this  evening  at 
the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques  at  eight  o'clock.  Till  then  do  nothing. " 

"  All  right ;  I  obey  you.  The  whole  thing  is  out  of  my  way 
of  business  awfully.  Bonjour" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

PUNCTUALLY  at  eight  o'clock  Graham  Vane  had  taken  his 
seat  at  a  corner  table  at  the  remote  end  of  the  Cafe  Jean 
Jacques,  called  for  his  cup  of  coffee  and  his  evening  journal, 
and  awaited  the  arrival  of  M.  Lebeau.  His  patience  was  not 
tasked  long.  In  a  few  minutes  the  Frenchman  entered, 
paused  at  the  comptoir,  as  was  his  habit,  to  address  a  polite 
salutation  to  the  well-dressed  lady  who  there  presided,  nodded 
as  usual  to  Armand  Monnier,  then  glanced  round,  recognized 
Graham  with  a  smile,  and  approached  his  table  with  the 
quiet  grace  of  movement  by  which  he  was  distinguished. 

Seating  himself  opposite  to  Graham,  and  speaking  in  a 
voice  too  low  to  be  heard  by  others,  and  in  French,  he  then 
said, — 

"In  thinking  over  your  communica cion  this  morning,  it 
strikes  me  as  probable,  perhaps  as  certain,  that  this  Louise 
Duval  or  her  children,  if  she  have  any,  must  be  entitled  to 
some  moneys  bequeathed  to  her  by  a  relation  or  friend  in 
England.  What  say  you  to  that  assumption,  Monsieur 
Lamb?  " 

" You  are  a  sharp  fellow,"  answered  Graham.  "Just  what 
I  say  to  myself.  Why  else  should  I  be  instructed  to  go  to 
such  expense  in  finding  her  out?  Most  likely,  if  one  can't 
trace  her,  or  her  children  born  before  the  date  named,  any 


228  THE   PARISIANS. 

such  moneys  will  go  to  some  one  else ;  and  that  some  one  else, 
whoever  he  be,  has  commissioned  my  employer  to  find  out. 
But  I  don't  imagine  any  sum  due  to  her  or  her  heirs  can  be 
much,  or  that  the  matter  is  very  important;  for,  if  so,  the 
thing  would  not  be  carelessly  left  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the 
small  fry  like  myself,  and  clapped  in  along  with  a  lot  of 
other  business  as  an  off-hand  job." 

"Will  you  tell  me  who  employed  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  feel  authorized  to  do  that  at  present;  and  I 
don't  see  the  necessity  of  it.  It  seems  to  me,  on  considera- 
tion, a  matter  for  the  police  to  ferret  out ;  only,  as  I  asked 
before,  how  should  I  get  at  the  police?" 

"  That  is  not  difficult.  It  is  just  possible  that  I  might  help 
you  better  than  any  lawyer  or  any  detective." 

"Why,  did  you  ever  know  this  Louise  Duval?" 

"Excuse  me,  Monsieur  Lamb;  you  refuse  me  your  full 
confidence;  allow  me  to  imitate  your  reserve." 

"  Oho !  "  said  Graham ;  "  shut  up  as  close  as  you  like ;  it  is 
nothing  to  me.  Only  observe,  there  is  this  difference  be- 
tween us,  that  I  am  employed  by  another.  He  does  not  au- 
thorize me  to  name  him,  and  if  I  did  commit  that  indiscretion, 
I  might  lose  my  bread  and  cheese.  Whereas  you  have  no- 
body's secret  to  guard  but  your  own;  in  saying  whether  or 
not  you  ever  knew  a  Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval ;  and  if 
you  have  some  reason  for  not  getting  me  the  information  I 
am  instructed  to  obtain,  that  is  also  a  reason  for  not  troubling 
you  further.  And  after  all,  old  boy  "  (with  a  familiar  slap 
on  Lebeau's  stately  shoulder),  "after  all,  it  is  I  who  would 
employ  you;  you  don't  employ  me.  And  if  you  find  out  the 
lady,  it  is  you  who  would  get  the  £100,  not  I." 

M.  Lebeau  mechanically  brushed,  with  a  light  movement 
of  hand,  the  shoulder  which  the  Englishman  had  so  pleasantly 
touched,  drew  himself  and  chair  some  inches  back,  and  said 
slowly,  — 

"Monsieur  Lamb,  let  us  talk  as  gentleman  to  gentleman. 
Put  aside  the  question  of  money  altogether;  I  must  first 
know  why  your  employer  wants  to  hunt  out  this  poor  Louise 
Duval.  It  may  be  to  her  injury,  and  I  would  do  her  none  if 


THE  PARISIANS.  229 

you  offered  thousands  where  you  offer  pounds.  I  forestall 
the  condition  of  mutual  confidence ;  I  own  that  I  have  known 
her, —  it  is  many  years  ago;  and,  Monsieur  Lamb,  though  a 
Frenchman  very  often  injures  a  woman  from  love,  he  is  in  a 
worse  plight  for  bread  and  cheese  than  I  am  if  he  injures  her 
for  money." 

"  Is  he  thinking  of  the  duchess's  jewels?  "  thought  Graham. 

"Bravo,  mon  vieux,"  he  said  aloud;  "but  as  I  don't  know 
what  my  employer's  motive  in  his  commission  is,  perhaps 
you  can  enlighten  me.  How  could  his  inquiry  injure  Louise 
Duval?" 

"I  cannot  say;  but  you  English  have  the  power  to  divorce 
your  wives.  Louise  Duval  may  have  married  an  Englishman, 
separated  from  him,  and  he  wants  to  know  where  he  can  find, 
in  order  to  criminate  and  divorce  her,  or  it  may  be  to  insist 
on  her  return  to  him." 

"Bosh!  that  is  not  likely." 

"  Perhaps,  then,  some  English  friend  she  may  have  known 
has  left  her  a  bequest,  which  would  of  course  lapse  to  some 
one  else  if  she  be  not  living." 

"  By  gad ! "  cried  Graham,  "  I  think  you  hit  the  right  nail 
on  the  head :  c'est  cela.  But  what  then?  " 

"  Well,  if  I  thought  any  substantial  benefit  to  Louise  Duval 
might  result  from  the  success  of  your  inquiry,  I  would  really 
see  if  it  were  in  my  power  to  help  you.  But  I  must  have 
time  to  consider." 

"How  long?" 

"I  can't  exactly  say;  perhaps  three  or  four  days." 

"Bon!  I  will  wait.  Here  comes  M.  Georges.  I  leave  you 
to  dominos  and  him.  Good-night." 

Late  that  night  M.  Lebeau  was  seated  alone  in  a  chamber 
connected  with  the  cabinet  in  which  he  received  visitors.  A 
ledger  was  open  before  him,  which  he  scanned  with  careful 
eyes,  no  longer  screened  by  spectacles.  The  survey  seemed 
to  satisfy  him.  He  murmured,  "It  suffices,  the  time  has 
come,"  closed  the  book,  returned  it  to  his  bureau,  which  he 
locked  up,  and  then  wrote  in  cipher  the  letter  here  reduced 
into  English:  — 


230  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  DEAR  AND  NOBLE  FRIEND,  —  Events  march ;  the  Empire  is  every- 
where undermined.  Our  treasury  has  thriven  in  my  hands ;  the  sums 
subscribed  and  received  by  me  through  you  have  become  more  than 
quadrupled  by  advantageous  speculations,  in  which  M.  Georges  has  been 
a  most  trustworthy  agent.  A  portion  of  them  I  have  continued  to  em- 
ploy in  the  mode  suggested,  —  namely,  in  bringing  together  men  dis- 
creetly chosen  as  being  in  their  various  ways  representatives  and  ring- 
leaders of  the  motley  varieties  that,  when  united  at  the  right  moment, 
form  a  Parisian  mob.  But  from  that  right  moment  we  are  as  yet  dis- 
tant. Before  we  can  call  passion  into  action,  we  must  prepare  opinion 
for  change.  I  propose  now  to  devote  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  our 
fund  towards  the  inauguration  of  a  journal  which  shall  gradually  give 
voice  to  our  designs.  Trust  me  to  insure  its  success,  and  obtain  the  aid 
of  writers  who  will  have  no  notion  of  the  uses  to  which  they  ultimately 
contribute.  Now  that  the  time  has  come  to  establish  for  ourselves  an 
organ  in  the  press,  addressing  higher  orders  of  intelligence  than  those 
which  are  needed  to  destroy  and  incapable  of  reconstructing,  the  time 
has  also  arrived  -for  the  reappearance  in  his  proper  name  and  rank  of 
the  man  in  whom  you  take  so  gracious  an  interest.  In  vain  you  have 
pressed  him  to  do  so  before ;  till  now  he  had  not  amassed  together,  by 
the  slow  process  of  petty  gains  and  constant  savings,  with  such  additions 
as  prudent  speculations  on  his  own  account  might  contribute,  the  modest 
means  necessary  to  his  resumed  position ;  and  as  he  always  contended 
against  your  generous  offers,  no  consideration  should  ever  tempt  him 
either  to  appropriate  to  his  personal  use  a  single  sou  intrusted  to  him  for 
a  public  purpose,  or  to  accept  from  friendship  the  pecuniary  aid  which 
would  abase  him  into  the  hireling  of  a  cause.  No  !  Victor  de  Mauleon 
despises  too  much  the  tools  that  he  employs  to  allow  any  man  hereafter 
to  say,  '  Thou  also  wert  a  tool,  and  hast  been  paid  for  thy  uses.' 

"But  to  restore  the  victim  of  calumny  to  his  rightful  place  in  this 
gaudy  world,  stripped  of  youth  and  reduced  in  fortune,  is  a  task  that 
may  well  seem  impossible.  To-morrow  he  takes  the  first  step  towards 
the  achievement  of  the  impossible.  Experience  is  no  bad  substitute  for 
youth,  and  ambition  is  made  stronger  by  the  goad  of  poverty. 

"  Thou  shalt  hear  of  his  news  soon." 


BOOK    V. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  next  day  at  noon  M.  Louvier  was  closeted  in  his  study 
with  M.  Gandrin. 

"Yes,"  cried  Louvier,  "I  have  behaved  very  handsomely 
to  the  beau  Marquis.  No  one  can  say  to  the  contrary." 

"True,"  answered  Gandrin.  "Besides  the  easy  terms  for 
the  transfer  of  the  mortgages,  that  free  bonus  of  one  thousand 
louis  is  a  generous  and  noble  act  of  munificence." 

"Is  it  not!  and  my  youngster  has  already  begun  to  do  with 
it  as  I  meant  and  expected.  He  has  taken  a  fine  apartment; 
he  has  bought  a  coupe  and  horses;  he  has  placed  himself  in  the 
hands  of  the  Chevalier  de  Finisterre ;  he  is  entered  at  the  Jockey 
Club.  Parbleu,  the  one  thousand  louis  will  be  soon  gone." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then!  why,  he  will  have  tasted  the  sweets  of  Paris- 
ian life;  he  will  think  with  disgust  of  the  vieux  manoir.  He 
can  borrow  no  more.  I  must  remain  sole  mortgagee,  and  I 
shall  behave  as  handsomely  in  buying  his  estates  as  I  have 
behaved  in  increasing  his  income." 

Here  a  clerk  entered  and  said  that  a  monsieur  wished  to 
see  M.  Louvier  for  a  few  minutes  in  private,  on  urgent 
business. 

"Tell  him  to  send  in  his  card." 

"  He  has  declined  to  do  so,  but  states  that  he  has  already 
the  honour  of  your  acquaintance." 

"A  writer  in  the  press,  perhaps;  or  is  he  an  artist?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  before,  Monsieur,  but  he  has  the  air 
tres  comme  il  faut." 


232  THE  PARISIANS. 

"Well,  you  may  admit  him.  I  will  not  detain  you 
longer,  my  dear  Gandrin.  My  homages  to  Madame.  Bon- 
jour.  " 

Louvier  bowed  out  M.  Gandrin,  and  then  rubbed  his  hands 
complacently.  He  was  in  high  spirits.  "Aha,  my  dear  Mar- 
quis, thou  art  in  my  trap  now.  Would  it  were  thy  father  in- 
stead," he  muttered  chucklingly,  and  then  took  his  stand  on 
the  hearth,  with  his  back  to  the  fireless  grate.  There  entered 
a  gentleman  exceedingly  well  dressed,  —  dressed  according  to 
the  fashion,  but  still  as  became  one  of  ripe  middle  age,  not 
desiring  to  pass  for  younger  than  he  was. 

He  was  tall,  with  a  kind  of  lofty  ease  in  his  air  and  his 
movements ;  not  slight  of  frame,  but  spare  enough  to  disguise 
the  strength  and  endurance  which  belong  to  sinews  and  thews 
of  steel,  freed  from  all  superfluous  flesh,  broad  across  the 
shoulders,  thin  in  the  flanks.  His  dark  hair  had  in  youth 
been  luxuriant  in  thickness  and  curl;  it  was  now  clipped 
short,  and  had  become  bare  at  the  temples,  but  it  still  re- 
tained the  lustre  of  its  colour  and  the  crispness  of  its  ringlets. 
He  wore  neither  beard  nor  mustache,  and  the  darkness  of  his 
hair  was  contrasted  by  a  clear  fairness  of  complexion,  health- 
ful, though  somewhat  pale,  and  eyes  of  that  rare  gray  tint 
which  has  in  it  no  shade  of  blue, —  peculiar  eyes,  which  give 
a  very  distinct  character  to  the  face.  The  man  must  have 
been  singularly  handsome  in  youth;  he  was  handsome  still, 
though  probably  in  his  forty-seventh  or  forty-eighth  year, 
doubtless  a  very  different  kind  of  comeliness.  The  form  of 
the  features  and  the  contour  of  the  face  were  those  that  suit 
the  rounded  beauty  of  the  Greek  outline,  and  such  beauty 
would  naturally  have  been  the  attribute  of  the  countenance  in 
earlier  days;  but  the  cheeks  were  now  thin,  and  with  lines  of 
care  and  sorrow  between  nostril  and  lip,  so  that  the  shape  of 
the  face  seemed  lengthened,  and  the  features  had  become 
more  salient. 

Louvier  gazed  at  his  visitor  with  a  vague  idea  that  he  had 
seen  him  before,  and  could  not  remember  where  or  when; 
but  at  all  events  he  recognized  at  the  first  glance  a  man  of 
rank  and  of  the  great  world. 


THE   PARISIANS.  233 

"Pray  be  seated,  Monsieur,"  lie  said,  resuming  his  own 
easy-chair. 

The  visitor  obeyed  the  invitation  with  a  very  graceful  bend 
of  his  head,  drew  his  chair  near  to  the  financier's,  stretched 
his  limbs  with  the  ease  of  a  man  making  himself  at  home, 
and  fixing  his  calm  bright  eyes  quietly  on  Louvier,  said,  with 
a  bland  smile, — 

"My  dear  old  friend,  do  you  not  remember  me?  You  are 
less  altered  than  I  am." 

Louvier  stared  hard  and  long ;  his  lip  fell,  his  cheek  paled, 
and  at  last  he  faltered  out,  "del!  is  it  possible!  Victor, — 
the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon?" 

"At  your  service,  my  dear  Louvier." 

There  was  a  pause;  the  financier  was  evidently  confused 
and  embarrassed,  and  not  less  evidently  the  visit  of  the  "  dear 
old  friend"  was  unwelcome. 

"Vicomte,"  he  said  at  last,  "this  is  indeed  a  surprise;  I 
thought  you  had  long  since  quitted  Paris  for  good." 

"'L'homme  propose,'  etc.  I  have  returned,  and  mean  to 
enjoy  the  rest  of  my  days  in  the  metropolis  of  the  Graces  and 
the  Pleasures.  What  though  we  are  not  so  young  as  we  were, 
Louvier, —  we  have  more  vigour  in  us  than  the  new  genera- 
tion; and  though  it  may  no  longer  befit  us  to  renew  the  gay 
carousals  of  old,  life  has  still  excitements  as  vivid  for  the 
social  temperament  and  ambitious  mind.  Yes,  the  roi  des 
viveurs  returns  to  Paris  for  a  more  solid  throne  than  he  filled 
before." 

"Are  you  serious?" 

"As  serious  as  the  French  gayety  will  permit  one  to  be." 

"  Alas,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte !  can  you  flatter  yourself  that 
you  will  regain  the  society  you  have  quitted,  and  the  name 
you  have  —  " 

Louvier  stopped  short;  something  in  the  Vicomte's  eye 
daunted  him. 

"The  name  I  have  laid  aside  for  convenience  of  travel. 
Princes  travel  incognito,  and  so  may  a  simple  gentilhomme. 
'Regain  my  place  in  society,'  say  you?  Yes;  it  is  not  that 
which  troubles  me." 


234  THE  PARISIANS. 

"What  does?" 

"  The  consideration  whether  on  a  very  modest  income  I  can 
be  sufficiently  esteemed  for  myself  to  render  that  society 
more  pleasant  than  ever.  Ah,  mon  cherf  why  recoil?  why 
so  frightened?  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  ask  you  for 
money?  Have  I  ever  done  so  since  we  parted;  and  did  I 
ever  do  so  before  without  repaying  you?  Bah!  you  roturiers 
are  worse  than  the  Bourbons.  You  never  learn  or  unlearn. 
'Fors  non  mutat  genus." 

The  magnificent  tnillionnaire,  accustomed  to  the  homage  of 
grandees  from  the  Faubourg  and  lions  from  the  Chaussee 
d'Antin,  rose  to  his  feet  in  superb  wrath,  less  at  the  taunting 
words  than  at  the  haughtiness  of  mien  with  which  they  were 
uttered. 

"  Monsieur,  I  cannot  permit  you  to  address  me  in  that  tone. 
Do  you  mean  to  insult  me?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Tranquillize  your  nerves,  reseat  yourself, 
and  listen, —  reseat  yourself,  I  say." 

Louvier  dropped  into  his  chair. 

"No,"  resumed  the  Vicomte,  politely,  "I  do  not  come  here 
to  insult  you,  neither  do  I  come  to  ask  money;  I  assume 
that  I  am  in  my  rights  when  I  ask  Monsieur  Louvier  what 
has  become  of  Louise  Duval?" 

"Louise  Duval!     I  know  nothing  about  her." 

"Possibly  not  now;  but  you  did  know  her  well  enough, 
when  we  two  parted,  to  be  a  candidate  for  her  hand.  You 
did  know  her  enough  to  solicit  my  good  offices  in  promotion 
of  your  suit;  and  you  did,  at  my  advice,  quit  Paris  to  seek 
her  at  Aix-la-Chapelle." 

"What!  have  you,  Monsieur  de  Mauleon,  not  heard  news 
of  her  since  that  day?" 

"  I  decline  to  accept  your  question  as  an  answer  to  mine. 
You  went  to  Aix-la-Chapelle ;  you  saw  Louise  Duval ;  at  my 
urgent  request  she  condescended  to  accept  your  hand." 

"No,  Monsieur  de  Mauleon,  she  did  not  accept  my  hand. 
I  did  not  even  see  her.  The  day  before  I  arrived  at  Aix-la- 
Chapelle  she  had  left  it, —  not  alone, —  left  it  with  her 
lover." 


THE  PARISIANS.  235 

"Her  lover!  You  do  not  mean  the  miserable  Englishman 
who  —  " 

"No  Englishman,"  interrupted  Louvier,  fiercely.  "Enough 
that  the  step  she  took  placed  an  eternal  barrier  between  her 
and  myself.  I  have  never  even  sought  to  hear  of  her  since 
that  day.  Vicomte,  that  woman  was  the  one  love  of  my  life. 
I  loved  her,  as  you  must  have  known,  to  folly,  to  madness. 
And  how  was  my  love  requited?  Ah!  you  open  a  very  deep 
wound,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte." 

"Pardon  me,  Louvier;  I  did  not  give  you  credit  for  feel- 
ings so  keen  and  so  genuine,  nor  did  I  think  myself  thus 
easily  affected  by  matters  belonging  to  a  past  life  so  remote 
from  the  present.  For  whom  did  Louise  forsake  you?  " 

"It  matters  not;  he  is  dead." 

"I  regret  to  hear  that;  I  might  have  avenged  you." 

"I  need  no  one  to  avenge  my  wrong.     Let  this  pass." 

"Not  yet.  Louise,  you  say,  fled  with  a  seducer?  So  proud 
as  she  was,  I  can  scarcely  believe  it." 

"Oh,  it  was  not  with  a  roturier  she  fled;  her  pride  would 
not  have  allowed  that." 

"He  must  have  deceived  her  somehow.  Did  she  continue 
to  live  with  him?" 

"That  question,  at  least,  I  can  answer;  for  though  I  lost 
all  trace  of  her  life,  his  life  was  pretty  well  known  to  me  till 
its  end;  and  a  very  few  months  after  she  fled  he  was  en- 
chained to  another.  Let  us  talk  of  her  no  more." 

"Ay,  ay,"  muttered  De  Mauleon,  "some  disgraces  are  not 
to  be  redeemed,  and  therefore  not  to  be  discussed.  To  me, 
though  a  relation,  Louise  Duval  was  but  little  known,  and 
after  what  you  tell  me,  I  cannot  dispute  your  right  to  say, 
'Talk  of  her  no  more.'  You  loved  her,  and  she  wronged  you. 
My  poor  Louvier,  pardon  me  if  I  made  an  old  wound  bleed 
afresh." 

These  words  were  said  with  a  certain  pathetic  tenderness ; 
they  softened  Louvier  towards  the  speaker. 

After  a  short  pause  the  Vicomte  swept  his  hand  over  his 
brow,  as  if  to  dismiss  from  his  mind  a  painful  and  obtrusive 
thought;  then  with  a  changed  expression  of  countenance, — 


236  THE  PARISIANS. 

an  expression  frank  and  winning, —  with  voice  and  with  man- 
ner in  which  no  vestige  remained  of  the  irony  or  the  haughti- 
ness with  which  he  had  resented  the  frigidity  of  his  reception, 
he  drew  his  chair  still  nearer  to  Louvier's,  and  resumed: 
"Our  situations,  Paul  Louvier,  are  much  changed  since  we 
two  became  friends.  I  then  could  say,  'Open  sesame'  to 
whatever  recesses,  forbidden  to  vulgar  footsteps,  the  adven- 
turer whom  I  took  by  the  hand  might  wish  to  explore.  In 
those  days  my  heart  was  warm;  I  liked  you,  Louvier, — hon- 
estly liked  you.  I  think  our  personal  acquaintance  com- 
menced in  some  gay  gathering  of  young  viveurs,  whose 
behaviour  to  you  offended  my  sense  of  good  breeding?" 

Louvier  coloured  and  muttered  inaudibly. 

De  Maleon  continued:  "I  felt  it  due  to  you  to  rebuke  their 
incivilities,  the  more  so  as  you  evinced  on  that  occasion  your 
own  superiority  in  sense  and  temper,  permit  me  to  add,  with 
no  lack  of  becoming  spirit." 

Louvier  bowed  his  head,  evidently  gratified. 

"  From  that  day  we  became  familiar.  If  any  obligation  to 
me  were  incurred,  you  would  not  have  been  slow  to  return  it. 
On  more  than  one  occasion  when  I  was  rapidly  wasting  money 
—  and  money  was  plentiful  with  you  —  you  generously  offered 
me  your  purse.  On  more  than  one  occasion  I  accepted  the 
offer ;  and  you  would  never  have  asked  repayment  if  I  had  not 
insisted  on  repaying.  I  was  no  less  grateful  for  your  aid." 

Louvier  made  a  movement  as  if  to  extend  his  hand,  but  he 
checked  the  impulse. 

"  There  was  another  attraction  which  drew  me  towards  you. 
I  recognized  in  your  character  a  certain  power  in  sympathy 
with  that  power  which  I  imagined  lay  dormant  in  myself, 
and  not  to  be  found  among  the  freluquets  and  lions  who  were 
my  more  habitual  associates.  Do  you  not  remember  some 
hours  of  serious  talk  we  have  had  together  when  we  lounged 
in  the  Tuileries,  or  sipped  our  coffee  in  the  garden  of  the 
Palais  Royal?  —  hours  when  we  forgot  that  those  were  the 
haunts  of  idlers,  and  thought  of  the  stormy  actions  affecting 
the  history  of  the  world  of  which  they  had  been  the  scene; 
hours  when  I  confided  to  you,  as  I  confided  to  no  other  man, 


THE  PARISIANS.  237 

the  ambitious  hopes  for  the  future  which  my  follies  in  the 
present,  alas!  were  hourly  tending  to  frustrate." 

"Ay,  I  remember  the  starlit  night;  it  was  not  in  the  gar- 
dens of  the  Tuileries  nor  in  the  Palais  Royal, —  it  was  on 
the  Pont  de  la  Concorde,  on  which  we  had  paused,  noting  the 
starlight  on  the  waters,  that  you  said,  pointing  towards  the 
walls  of  the  Corps  L6gislatif,  'Paul,  when  I  once  get  into 
the  Chamber,  how  long  will  it  take  me  to  become  First 
Minister  of  France  ?  '  " 

"Did  I  say  so?  —  possibly;  but  I  was  too  young  then  for 
admission  to  the  Chamber,  and  I  fancied  I  had  so  many  years 
yet  to  spare  in  idle  loiterings  at  the  Fountain  of  Youth.  Pass 
over  these  circumstances.  You  became  in  love  with  Louise. 
I  told  you  her  troubled  history;  it  did  not  diminish  your 
love;  and  then  I  frankly  favoured  your  suit.  You  set  out 
for  Aix-la-Chapelle  a  day  or  two  afterwards;  then  fell  the 
thunderbolt  which  shattered  my  existence,  and  we  have  never 
met  again  till  this  hour.  You  did  not  receive  me  kindly, 
Paul  Louvier." 

"But,"  said  Louvier,  falteringly,  "but  since  you  refer  to 
that  thunderbolt,  you  cannot  but  be  aware  that  —  that  —  " 

"  I  was  subjected  to  a  calumny  which  I  expect  those  who 
have  known  me  as  well  as  you  did  to  assist  me  now  to  refute." 

"If  it  be  really  a  calumny." 

"Heavens,  man!  could  you  ever  doubt  that?"  cried  De 
Mauleon,  with  heat;  "ever  doubt  that  I  would  rather  have 
blown  out  my  brains  than  allowed  them  even  to  conceive  the 
idea  of  a  crime  so  base?" 

"Pardon  me,"  answered  Louvier,  meekly,  "but  I  did  not 
return  to  Paris  for  months  after  you  had  disappeared.  My 
mind  was  unsettled  by  the  news  that  awaited  me  at  Aix ;  I 
sought  to  distract  it  by  travel,  —  visited  Holland  and  Eng- 
land ;  and  when  I  did  return  to  Paris,  all  that  I  heard  of  your 
story  was  the  darker  side  of  it.  I  willingly  listen  to  your 
own  account.  You  never  took,  or  at  least  never  accepted, 

the  Duchesse  de 's  jewels ;  and  your  friend  M.  de  ]ST. 

never  sold  them  to  one  jeweller  and  obtained  their  substi- 
tutes in  paste  from  another?  " 


238  THE  PARISIANS. 

The  Vicomte  made  a  perceptible  effort  to  repress  an  im- 
pulse of  rage ;  then  reseating  himself  in  his  chair,  and  with 
that  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulder  by  which  a  Frenchman  im- 
plies to  himself  that  rage  would  be  out  of  place,  replied 
calmly,  "M.  de  N.  did  as  you  say,  but  of  course  not  em- 
ployed by  me,  nor  with  my  knowledge.  Listen ;  the  truth  is 
this, — the  time  has  come  to  tell  it.  Before  you  left  Paris 
for  Aix  I  found  myself  on  the  brink  of  ruin.  I  had  glided 
towards  it  with  my  characteristic  recklessness,  with  that 
scorn  of  money  for  itself,  that  sanguine  confidence  in  the  fa- 
vour of  fortune,  which  are  vices  common  to  every  roi  des 
viveurs.  Poor  mock  Alexanders  that  we  spendthrifts  are  in 
youth!  we  divide  all  we  have  among  others,  and  when  asked 
by  some  prudent  friend,  'What  have  you  left  for  your  own 
share?'  answer,  'Hope.'  I  knew,  of  course,  that  my  patri- 
mony was  rapidly  vanishing ;  but  then  my  horses  were  match- 
less. I  had  enough  to  last  me  for  years  on  their  chance  of 
winning  —  of  course  they  would  win.  But  you  may  recollect 
when  we  parted  that  I  was  troubled, —  creditors'  bills  be- 
fore me  —  usurers'  bills  too,  —  and  you,  my  dear  Louvier, 
pressed  on  me  your  purse,  were  angry  when  I  refused  it. 
How  could  I  accept?  All  my  chance  of  repayment  was  in 
the  speed  of  a  horse.  I  believed  in  that  chance  for  myself; 
but  for  a  trustful  friend,  no.  Ask  your  own  heart  now, — 
nay,  I  will  not  say  heart, —  ask  your  own  common-sense, 
whether  a  man  who  then  put  aside  your  purse  —  spendthrift, 
vaurien,  though  he  might  be  —  was  likely  to  steal  or  accept  a 
woman's  jewels.  Va,  mon  pauvre  Louvier,  again  I  say,  'Fors 
non  mutat  genus.' ' 

Despite  the  repetition  of  the  displeasing  patrician  motto, 
such  reminiscences  of  his  visitor's  motley  character  —  irreg- 
ular, turbulent,  the  reverse  of  severe,  but,  in  its  own  loose 
way,  grandly  generous  and  grandly  brave  —  struck  both  on 
the  common-sense  and  the  heart  of  the  listener;  and  the 
Frenchman  recognized  the  Frenchman.  Louvier  doubted  De 
Mauleon's  word  no  more,  bowed  his  head,  and  said,  "Victor 
de  Mauleon,  I  have  wronged  you;  go  on." 

"  On  the  day  after  you  left  for  Aix  came  that  horse-race  on 


THE  PARISIANS.  239 

which  my  all  depended :  it  was  lost.  The  loss  absorbed  the 
whole  of  my  remaining  fortune;  it  absorbed  about  twenty 
thousand  francs  in  excess,  a  debt  of  honour  to  De  N.,  whom 
you  called  my  friend.  Friend  he  was  not;  imitator,  follower, 
flatterer,  yes.  Still  I  deemed  him  enough  my  friend  to  say  to 
him,  '  Give  me  a  little  time  to  pay  the  money ;  I  must  sell  my 
stud,  or  write  to  my  only  living  relation  from  whom  I  have 
expectations.'  You  remember  that  relation, —  Jacques  de 
Maule"on,  old  and  unmarried.  By  De  N.'s  advice  I  did  write 
to  my  kinsman.  No  answer  came ;  but  what  did  come  were 
fresh  bills  from  creditors.  I  then  calmly  calculated  my  as- 
sets. The  sale  of  my  stud  and  effects  might  suffice  to  pay 
every  sou  that  I  owed,  including  my  debt  to  De  N. ;  but  that 
was  not  qiiite  certain.  At  all  events,  when  the  debts  were  paid 
I  should  be  beggared.  Well,  you  know,  Louvier,  what  we 
Frenchmen  are :  how  Nature  has  denied  to  us  the  quality  of 
patience ;  how  involuntarily  suicide  presents  itself  to  us  when 
hope  is  lost;  and  suicide  seemed  to  me  here  due  to  honour, — 
namely,  to  the  certain  discharge  of  my  liabilities, — for  the 
stud  and  effects  of  Victor  de  Maule'on,  roi  des  viveurs,  would 
command  much  higher  prices  if  he  died  like  Cato  than  if  he 
ran  away  from  his  fate  like  Pompey.  Doubtless  De  N. 
guessed  my  intention  from  my  words  or  my  manner ;  but  on  the 
very  day  in  which  I  had  made  all  preparations  for  quitting 
the  world  from  which  sunshine  had  vanished,  I  received  in  a 
blank  envelope  bank-notes  amounting  to  seventy  thousand 
francs,  and  the  post-mark  on  the  envelope  was  that  of  the 
town  of  Fontainebleau,  near  to  which  lived  my  rich  kinsman 
Jacques.  I  took  it  for  granted  that  the  sum  came  from  him. 
Displeased  as  he  might  have  been  with  my  wild  career,  still  I 
was  his  natural  heir.  The  sum  sufficed  to  pay  my  debt  to  De 
N.,  to  all  creditors,  and  leave  a  surplus.  My  sanguine  spir- 
its returned.  I  would  sell  my  stud;  I  would  retrench,  re- 
form, go  to  my  kinsman  as  the  penitent  son.  The  fatted  calf 
would  be  killed,  and  I  should  wear  purple  yet.  You  under- 
stand that,  Louvier?" 

"Yes,  yes;  so  like  you.     Go  on." 

"Now,  then,  came  the  thunderbolt!    Ah!  in  those  sunny 


240  THE  PARISIANS. 

days  you  used  to  envy  me  for  being  so  spoilt  by  women.  The 
Duchesse  de had  conceived  for  me  one  of  those  roman- 
tic fancies  which  women  without  children  and  with  ample 
leisure  for  the  waste  of  affection  do  sometimes  conceive  for 
very  ordinary  men  younger  than  themselves,  but  in  whom 
they  imagine  they  discover  sinners  to  reform  or  heroes  to  ex- 
alt. I  had  been  honoured  by  some  notes  from  the  Duchesse 
in  which  this  sort  of  romance  was  owned.  I  had  not  replied 
to  them  encouragingly.  In  truth,  my  heart  was  then  de- 
voted to  another,  —  the  English  girl  whom  I  had  wooed  as  my 
wife;  who,  despite  her  parents'  retraction  of  their  consent 
to  our  union  when  they  learned  how  dilapidated  were  my 
fortunes,  pledged  herself  to  remain  faithful  to  me,  and  wait 
for  better  days."  Again  De  Mauleon  paused  in  suppressed 
emotion,  and  then  went  on  hurriedly :  "  No,  the  Duchesse  did 
not  inspire  me  with  guilty  passion,  but  she  did  inspire  me 
with  an  affectionate  respect.  I  felt  that  she  was  by  nature 
meant  to  be  a  great  and  noble  creature,  and  was,  neverthe- 
less, at  that  moment  wholly  misled  from  her  right  place 
amongst  women  by  an  illusion  of  mere  imagination  about  a 
man  who  happened  then  to  be  very  much  talked  about,  and 
perhaps  resembled  some  Lothario  in  the  novels  which  she 
was  always  reading.  We  lodged,  as  you  may  remember,  in 
the  same  house." 

"Yes,  I  remember.  I  remember  how  you  once  took  me  to 
a  great  ball  given  by  the  Duchesse ;  how  handsome  I  thought 
her,  though  no  longer  young ;  and  you  say  right  —  how  I  did 
envy  you,  that  night!  " 

"From  that  night,  however,  the  Due,  not  unnaturally,  be- 
came jealous.  He  reproved  the  Duchesse  for  her  too  amiable 
manner  towards  a  mauvais  svjet  like  myself,  and  forbade  her 
in  future  to  receive  my  visits.  It  was  then  that  these  notes 
became  frequent  and  clandestine,  brought  to  me  by  her  maid, 
who  took  back  my  somewhat  chilling  replies. 

"But  to  proceed.  In  the  flush  of  my  high  spirits,  and  in 
the  insolence  of  magnificent  ease  with  which  I  paid  De  N. 
the  trifle  I  owed  him,  something  he  said  made  my  heart  stand 
still.  I  told  him  that  the  money  received  had  come  from 


THE  PARISIANS.  241 

Jacques  de  Maule*on,  and  that  I  was  going  down  to  his  house 
that  day  to  thank  him.  He  replied,  'Don't  go;  it  did  not 
conie  from  him. '  '  It  must ;  see  the  post-mark  of  the  envel- 
ope,—  Fontainebleau. '  'I  posted  it  at  Fontainebleau.'  'You 
sent  me  the  money,  you! '  'Nay,  that  is  beyond  my  means. 
Where  it  came  from,'  said  this  miserable,  'much  more  may 
yet  come;'  and  then  he  narrated,  with  that  cynicism  so  in 
vogue  at  Paris,  how  he  had  told  the  Duchesse  (who  knew 
him  as  my  intimate  associate)  of  my  stress  of  circumstance, 
of  his  fear  that  I  meditated  something  desperate;  how  she 
gave  him  the  jewels  to  sell  and  to  substitute ;  how,  in  order 
to  baffle  my  suspicion  and  frustrate  my  scruples,  he  had  gone 
to  Fontainebleau  and  there  posted  the  envelope  containing 
the  bank-notes,  out  of  which  he  secured  for  himself  the  pay- 
ment he  deemed  otherwise  imperilled.  De  N.  having  made 
this  confession,  hurried  down  the  stairs  swiftly  enough  to 
save  himself  a  descent  by  the  window.  Do  you  believe  me 
still?  " 

"Yes;  you  were  always  so  hot-blooded,  and  De  N.  so  con- 
siderate of  self,  I  believe  you  implicitly." 

"Of  course  I  did  what  any  man  would  do;  I  wrote  a  hasty 
letter  to  the  Duchesse,  stating  all  my  gratitude  for  an  act  of 
pure  friendship  so  noble;  urging  also  the  reasons  that  ren- 
dered it  impossible  for  a  man  of  honour  to  profit  by  such  an 
act.  Unhappily,  what  had  been  sent  was  paid  away  ere  I 
knew  the  facts ;  but  T  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  life  till 
my  debt  to  her  was  acquitted;  in  short,  Louvier,  conceive  for 
yourself  the  sort  of  letter  which  I  —  which  any  honest  man  — 
would  write,  under  circumstances  so  cruel." 

"H'm!"  grunted  Louvier. 

"Something,  however,  in  my  letter,  conjoined  with  what 
De  N.  had  told  her  as  to  my  state  of  mind,  alarmed  this  poor 
woman,  who  had  deigned  to  take  in  me  an  interest  so  little 
deserved.  Her  reply,  very  agitated  and  incoherent,  was 
brought  to  me  by  her  maid,  who  had  taken  my  letter,  and  by 
whom,  as  I  before  said,  our  correspondence  had  been  of  late 
carried  on.  In  her  reply  she  implored  me  to  decide,  to  reflect 
on  nothing  till  I  had  seen  her;  stated  how  the  rest  of  her 
VOL.  i.  — 16 


242  THE  PARISIANS. 

day  was  pre-engaged ;  and  since  to  visit  her  openly  had  been 
made  impossible  by  the  Due's  interdict,  enclosed  the  key  to 
the  private  entrance  to  her  rooms,  by  which  I  could  gain  an 
interview  with  her  at  ten  o'clock  that  night,  an  hour  at 
which  the  Due  had  informed  her  he  should  be  out  till  late  at 
his  club.  Now,  however  great  the  indiscretion  which  the 
Duchesse  here  committed,  it  is  due  to  her  memory  to  say 
that  I  am  convinced  that  her  dominant  idea  was  that  I  med- 
itated self-destruction ;  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost  to  save  me 
from  it;  and  for  the  rest  she  trusted  to  the  influence  which  a 
woman's  tears  and  adjurations  and  reasonings  have  over  even 
the  strongest  and  hardest  men.  It  is  only  one  of  those  cox- 
combs in  whom  the  world  of  fashion  abounds  who  could  have 
admitted  a  thought  that  would  have  done  wrong  to  the  impul- 
sive, generous,  imprudent  eagerness  of  a  woman  to  be  in  time 
to  save  from  death  by  his  own  hand  a  fellow-being  for  whom 
she  had  conceived  an  interest.  I  so  construed  her  note.  At 
the  hour  she  named  I  admitted  myself  into  the  rooms  by 
the  key  she  sent.  You  know  the  rest :  I  was  discovered  by  the 
Due  and  by  the  agents  of  police  in  the  cabinet  in  which  the 
Duchesse's  jewels  were  kept.  The  key  that  admitted  me 
into  the  cabinet  was  found  in  my  possession." 

De  Mauleon's  voice  here  faltered,  and  he  covered  his  face 
with  a  convulsive  hand.  Almost  in  the  same  breath  he  re- 
covered from  visible  sign  of  emotion,  and  went  on  with  a 
half  laugh. 

•''Ah!  you  envied  me,  did  you,  for  being  spoiled  by  the 
women?  Enviable  position  indeed  was  mine  that  night!  The 
Due  obeyed  the  first  impulse  of  his  wrath.  He  imagined  that 
I  had  dishonoured  him;  he  would  dishonour  me  in  return. 
Easier  to  his  pride,  too,  a  charge  against  the  robber  of  jewels 
than  against  a  favoured  lover  of  his  wife.  But  when  I,  obey- 
ing the  first  necessary  obligation  of  honour,  invented  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  the  story  by  which  the  Duchesse's  repu- 
tation was  cleared  from  suspicion,  accused  myself  of  a  frantic 
passion  and  the  trickery  of  a  fabricated  key,  the  Due's  true 
nature  of  yentilhomme  came  back.  He  retracted  the  charge 
which  he  could  scarcely  even  at  the  first  blush  have  felt  to  be 


THE  PARISIANS.  243 

well-founded;  and  as  the  sole  charge  left  was  simply  that 
which  men  comme  il  faut  do  not  refer  to  criminal  courts 
and  police  investigations,  I  was  left  to  make  my  bow  unmo- 
lested and  retreat  to  my  own  rooms,  awaiting  there  such 
communciations  as  the  Due  might  deem  it  right  to  convey  to 
me  on  the  morrow. 

"But  on  the  morrow  the  Due,  with  his  wife  and  personal 
suite,  quitted  Paris  en  route  for  Spain;  the  bulk  of  his  reti- 
nue, including  the  offending  abigail,  was  discharged;  and, 
whether  through  these  servants  or  through  the  police,  the 
story  before  evening  was  in  the  mouth  of  every  gossip  in  club 
or  cafe, —  exaggerated,  distorted,  to  my  ignominy  and  shame. 
My  detection  in  the  cabinet,  the  sale  of  the  jewels,  the  sub- 
stitution of  paste  by  De  N.,  who  was  known  to  be  my  servile 
imitator  and  reputed  to  be  my  abject  tool,  all  my  losses  on 
the  turf,  my  debts, —  all  these  scattered  fibres  of  flax  were 
twisted  together  in  a  rope  that  would  have  hanged  a  dog  with 
a  much  better  name  than  mine.  If  some  disbelieved  that  I 
could  be  a  thief,  few  of  those  who  should  have  known  me 
best  held  me  guiltless  of  a  baseness  almost  equal  to  that  of 
theft, — the  exaction  of  profit  from  the  love  of  a  foolish 
woman." 

"But  you  could  have  told  your  own  tale,  shown  the  letters 
you  had  received  from  the  Duchesse,  and  cleared  away  every 
stain  on  your  honour." 

"How?  —  shown  her  letters,  ruined  her  character,  even 
stated  that  she  had  caused  her  jewels  to  be  sold  for  the  uses 
of  a  young  roue!  Ah,  no,  Louvier!  I  would  rather  have 
gone  to  the  galleys." 

"H'm!"  grunted  Louvier  again. 

"The  Due  generously  gave  me  better  means  of  righting 
myself.  Three  days  after  he  quitted  Paris  I  received  a  letter 
from  him,  very  politely  written,  expressing  his  great  regret 
that  any  words  implying  the  suspicion  too  monstrous  and  ab- 
surd to  need  refutation  should  have  escaped  him  in  the  sur- 
prise of  the  moment;  but  stating  that  since  the  offence  I  had 
owned  was  one  that  he  could  not  overlook,  he  was  under  the 
necessity  of  asking  the  only  reparation  I  could  make.  That 


244  THE  PARISIANS. 

if  it  'deranged '  me  to  quit  Paris,  he  would  return  to  it  for 
the  purpose  required;  but  that  if  I  would  give  him  the  addi- 
tional satisfaction  of  suiting  his  convenience,  he  should  pre- 
fer to  await  my  arrival  at  Bayonne,  where  he  was  detained 
by  the  indisposition  of  the  Duchesse." 

"You  have  still  that  letter?"  asked  Louvier,  quickly. 

"Yes;  with  other  more  important  documents  constituting 
what  I  may  call  my  pieces  justiftcatives. 

"  I  need  not  say  that  I  replied  stating  the  time  at  which  I 
should  arrive  at  Bayonne,  and  the  hotel  at  which  I  should 
await  the  Due's  command.  Accordingly  I  set  out  that  same 
day,  gained  the  hotel  named,  despatched  to  the  Due  the  an- 
nouncement of  my  arrival,  and  was  considering  how  I  should 
obtain  a  second  in  some  officer  quartered  in  the  town  —  for 
my  soreness  and  resentment  at  the  marked  coldness  of  my 
former  acquaintances  at  Paris  had  forbidden  me  to  seek  a 
second  among  any  of  that  faithless  number  —  when  the  Due 
himself  entered  my  room.  Judge  of  my  amaze  at  seeing  him 
in  person;  judge  how  much  greater  the  amaze  became  when 
he  advanced  with  a  grave  but  cordial  smile,  offering  me  his 
hand! 

"  'Monsieur  de  Mauleon, '  said  he,  'since  I  wrote  to  you, 
facts  have  become  known  to  me  which  would  induce  me  rather 
to  ask  your  friendship  than  call  on  you  to  defend  your  life. 
Madame  la  Duchesse  has  been  seriously  ill  since  we  left 
Paris,  and  I  refrained  from  all  explanations  likely  to  add  to 
the  hysterical  excitement  under  which  she  was  suffering.  It 
is  only  this  day  that  her  mind  became  collected,  and  she  her- 
self then  gave  me  her  entire  confidence.  Monsieur,  she  in- 
sisted on  my  reading  the  letters  that  you  addressed  to  her. 
Those  letters,  Monsieur,  suffice  to  prove  your  innocence  of 
any  design  against  my  peace.  The  Duchesse  has  so  candidly 
avowed  her  own  indiscretion,  has  so  clearly  established  the 
distinction  between  indiscretion  and  guilt,  that  I  have  granted 
her  my  pardon  with  a  lightened  heart  and  a  firm  belief  that 
we  shall  be  happier  together  than  we  have  been  yet. ' 

"  The  Due  continued  his  journey  the  next  day,  but  he  sub- 
sequently honoured  me  with  two  or  three  letters  written  as 


THE  PARISIANS.  245 

friend  to  friend,  and  in  which  you  will  find  repeated  the  sub- 
stance of  what  I  have  stated  him  to  say  by  word  of  mouth." 

"But  why  not  then  have  returned  to  Paris?  Such  letters, 
at  least,  you  might  have  shown,  and  in  braving  your  calum- 
niators you  would  have  soon  lived  them  down." 

"  You  forget  that  I  was  a  ruined  man.  When,  by  the  sale 
of  my  horses,  etc.,  my  debts,  including  what  was  owed  to  the 
Duchesse,  and  which  I  remitted  to  the  Due,  were  discharged, 
the  balance  left  to  me  would  not  have  maintained  me  a  week 
at  Paris.  Besides,  I  felt  so  sore,  so  indignant.  Paris  and 
the  Parisians  had  become  to  me  so  hateful.  And  to  crown 
all,  that  girl,  that  English  girl  whom  I  had  so  loved,  on 
whose  fidelity  I  had  so  counted  —  well,  I  received  a  letter 
from  her,  gently  but  coldly  bidding  me  farewell  forever.  I 
do  not  think  she  believed  me  guilty  of  theft;  but  doubtless 
the  offence  I  had  confessed,  in  order  to  save  the  honour  of  the 
Duchesse,  could  but  seem  to  her  all  sufficient!  Broken  in 
spirit,  bleeding  at  heart  to  the  very  core,  still  self-destruc- 
tion was  no  longer  to  be  thought  of.  I  would  not  die  till  I 
could  once  more  lift  up  my  head  as  Victor  de  Mauleon." 

"  What  then  became  of  you,  my  poor  Victor?  " 

"Ah!  that  is  a  tale  too  long  for  recital.  I  have  played  so 
many  parts  that  I  am  puzzled  to  recognize  my  own  identity 
with  the  Victor  de  Mauleon  whose  name  I  abandoned.  I 
have  been  a  soldier  in  Algeria,  and  won  my  cross  on  the  field 
of  battle, — that  cross  and  my  colonel's  letter  are  among  my 
pieces  justificatives;  I  have  been  a  gold-digger  in  California, 
a  speculator  in  New  York,  of  late  in  callings  obscure  and 
humble.  But  in  all  my  adventures,  under  whatever  name,  I 
have  earned  testimonials  of  probity,  could  manifestations  of 
so  vulgar  a  virtue  be  held  of  account  by  the  enlightened  peo- 
ple of  Paris.  I  come  now  to  a  close.  The  Vicomte  de 
Mauleon  is  about  to  re-appear  in  Paris,  and  the  first  to  whom 
he  announces  that  sublime  avatar  is  Paul  Louvier.  When 
settled  in  some  modest  apartment,  I  shall  place  in  your  hands 
my  pieces  justificatives.  I  shall  ask  you  to  summon  my  sur- 
viving relations  or  connections,  among  which  are  the  Counts 
de  Vandemar,  Beauvilliers,  De  Passy,  and  the  Marquis  de 


246  THE  PARISIANS. 

Kochebriant,  with  any  friends  of  your  own  who  sway  the 
opinions  of  the  Great  World.  You  will  place  my  justification 
before  them,  expressing  your  own  opinion  that  it  suffices ;  in 
a  word,  you  will  give  me  the  sanction  of  your  countenance. 
For  the  rest,  I  trust  to  myself  to  propitiate  the  kindly  and 
to  silence  the  calumnious.  I  have  spoken;  what  say  you?" 

"You  overrate  my  power  in  society.  Why  not  appeal 
yourself  to  your  high-born  relations?" 

"  No,  Louvier ;  I  have  too  well  considered  the  case  to  alter 
my  decision.  It  is  through  you,  and  you  alone,  that  I  shall 
approach  my  relations.  My  vindicator  must  be  a  man  of 
whom  the  vulgar  cannot  say,  'Oh,  he  is  a  relation, — a  fellow- 
noble;  those  aristocrats  whitewash  each  other.'  It  must  be 
an  authority  with  the  public  at  large, — a  bourgeois,  a  million- 
naire,  a  roi  de  la  Bourse.  I  choose  you,  and  that  ends  the 
discussion." 

Louvier  could  not  help  laughing  good-humouredly  at  the 
sang  froid  of  the  Vicomte.  He  was  once  more  under  the 
domination  of  a  man  who  had  for  a  time  dominated  all  with 
whom  he  lived. 

De  Mauleon  continued:  "Your  task  will  be  easy  enough. 
Society  changes  rapidly  at  Paris.  Few  persons  now  exist 
who  have  more  than  a  vague  recollection  of  the  circumstances 
which  can  be  so  easily  explained  to  my  complete  vindication 
when  the  vindication  comes  from  a  man  of  your  solid  respec- 
tability and  social  influence.  Besides,  I  have  political  objects 
in  view.  You  are  a  Liberal ;  the  Vandemars  and  Rochebriants 
are  Legitimists.  I  prefer  a  godfather  on  the  Liberal  side. 
Pardieu,  mon  ami,  why  such  coquettish  hesitation?  Said 
and  done.  Your  hand  on  it." 

"There  is  my  hand  then.     I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you." 

"  I  know  you  will,  old  friend ;  and  you  do  both  kindly  and 
wisely."  Here  De  Mauleon  cordially  pressed  the  hand  he 
held,  and  departed. 

On  gaining  the  street,  the  Vicomte  glided  into  a  neighbour- 
ing courtyard,  in  which  he  had  left  his  fiacre,  and  bade  the 
coachman  drive  towards  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol.  On  the 
way,  he  took  from  a  small  bag  that  he  had  left  in  the  car- 


THE  PARISIANS.  247 

riage  the  flaxen  wig  and  pale  whiskers  which  distinguished 
M.  Lebeau,  and  mantled  his  elegant  habiliments  in  an  im- 
mense cloak,  which  he  had  also  left  in  the  fiacre.  Arrived  at 
the  Boulevard  Sebastopol,  he  drew  up  the  collar  of  the  cloak 
so  as  to  conceal  much  of  his  face,  stopped  the  driver,  paid 
him  quickly,  and,  bag  in  hand,  hurried  on  to  another  stand 
of  fiacres  at  a  little  distance,  entered  one,  drove  to  the  Fau- 
bourg Montmartre,  dismissed  the  vehicle  at  the  mouth  of  a 
street  not  far  from  M.  Lebeau' s  office,  and  gained  on  foot  the 
private  side-door  of  the  house,  let  himself  in  with  his  latch- 
key, entered  the  private  room  on  the  inner  side  of  his  office, 
locked  the  door,  and  proceeded  leisurely  to  exchange  the  bril- 
liant appearance  which  the  Vicomte  de  Maul6on  had  borne 
on  his  visit  to  the  millionnaire  for  the  sober  raiment  and 
bourgeois  air  of  M.  Lebeau,  the  letter-writer. 

Then  after  locking  up  his  former  costume  in  a  drawer  of 
his  secretaire,  he  sat  himself  down  and  wrote  the  following 
lines :  — 

DEAR  MONSIEUR  GEORGES,  —  I  advise  you  strongly,  from  informa- 
tion that  has  just  reached  me,  to  lose  no  time  in  pressing  M.  Savarin  to 
repay  the  sum  I  recommended  you  to  lend  him,  and  for  which  you  hold 
his  bill  due  this  day.  The  scandal  of  legal  measures  against  a  writer  so 
distinguished  should  be  avoided  if  possible.  He  will  avoid  it  and  get  the 
money  somehow  ;  but  he  must  be  urgently  pressed.  If  you  neglect  this 
warning,  my  responsibility  is  past.  Agreez  mes  sentimens  les  plus 

J.  L. 


CHAPTEE   II. 

THE  Marquis  de  Eochebriant  is  no  longer  domiciled  in  an 
attic  in  the  gloomy  Faubourg.  See  him  now  in  a  charming 
appartement  de  yarcon  au  premier  in  the  Eue  du  Helder,  close 
by  the  promenades  and  haunts  of  the  mode.  It  had  been  fur- 
nished and  inhabited  by  a  brilliant  young  provincial  from  Bor- 
deaux, who,  coming  into  an  inheritance  of  one  hundred  thou- 


248  THE  PARISIANS. 

sand  francs,  had  rushed  up  to  Paris  to  enjoy  himself,  and  make 
his  million  at  the  Bourse.  He  had  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly, 
—  he  had  been  a  darling  of  the  demi  monde  /  he  had  been  a 
successful  and  an  inconstant  gallant.  Zelie  had  listened  to  his 
vows  of  eternal  love,  and  his  offers  of  unlimited  cachemires  ; 
Desire"e,  succeeding  Zelie,  had  assigned  to  him  her  whole 
heart  —  or  all  that  was  left  of  it  —  in  gratitude  for  the  ardour 
of  his  passion,  and  the  diamonds  and  coupe  which  accompa- 
nied and  attested  the  ardour ;  the  superb  Hortense,  supplanting 
Desire"e,  received  his  visits  in  the  charming  apartment  he  fur- 
nished for  her,  and  entertained  him  and  his  friends  at  the  most 
delicate  little  suppers,  for  the  moderate  sum  of  four  thousand 
francs  a  month.  Yes,  he  had  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly,  but 
he  had  not  made  a  million  at  the  Bourse.  Before  the  year  was 
out,  the  one  hundred  thousand  francs  were  gone.  Compelled 
to  return  to  his  province,  and  by  his  hard-hearted  relations 
ordained,  on  penalty  of  starvation,  to  marry  the  daughter  of  an 
avoue,  for  the  sake  of  her  dot  and  a  share  in  the  hated  drudg- 
ery of  the  avoue's  business, —  his  apartment  was  to  be  had  for 
a  tenth  part  of  the  original  cost  of  its  furniture.  A  certain 
Chevalier  de  Finisterre,  to  whom  Louvier  had  introduced  the 
Marquis  as  a  useful  fellow  who  knew  Paris,  and  would  save 
him  from  being  cheated,  had  secured  this  bijou  of  an  apartment 
for  Alain,  and  concluded  the  bargain  for  the  bagatelle  of  £500. 
The  Chevalier  took  the  same  advantageous  occasion  to  pur- 
chase the  English  well-bred  hack  and  the  neat  coupti  and  horses 
which  the  Bordelais  was  also  necessitated  to  dispose  of.  These 
purchases  made,  the  Marquis  had  some  five  thousand  francs 
(£200)  left  out  of  Louvier's  premium  of  £1,000.  The  Marquis, 
however,  did  not  seem  alarmed  or  dejected  by  the  sudden  dim- 
inution of  capital  so  expeditiously  effected.  The  easy  life  thus 
commenced  seemed  to  him  too  natural  to  be  fraught  with  dan- 
ger; and  easy  though  it  was,  it  was  a  very  simple  and  modest 
sort  of  life  compared  with  that  of  many  other  men  of  his  age 
to  whom  Enguerrand  had  introduced  him,  though  most  of 
them  had  an  income  less  than  his,  and  few,  indeed,  of  them 
were  his  equals  in  dignity  of  birth.  Could  a  Marquis  de 
Kochebriant,  if  he  lived  at  Paris  at  all,  give  less  than  three 


THE  PARISIANS.  249 

thousand  francs  a  year  for  his  apartment,  or  mount  a  more 
humble  establishment  than  that  confined  to  a  valet  and  a  tiger, 
two  horses  for  his  coup&  and  one  for  the  saddle?  "Impos- 
sible," said  the  Chevalier  de  Finisterre,  decidedly;  and  the 
Marquis  bowed  to  so  high  an  authority.  He  thought  within 
himself,  "  If  I  find  in  a  few  months  that  I  am  exceeding  my 
means,  I  can  but  dispose  of  my  rooms  and  my  horses,  and 
return  to  Rochebriant  a  richer  man  by  far  than  I  left  it." 

To  say  truth,  the  brilliant  seductions  of  Paris  had  already 
produced  their  effect,  not  only  on  the  habits,  but  011  the  char- 
acter and  cast  of  thought,  which  the  young  noble  had  brought 
with  him  from  the  feudal  and  melancholy  Bretagne. 

Warmed  by  the  kindness  with  which,  once  introduced  by 
his  popular  kinsmen,  he  was  everywhere  received,  the  reserve 
or  shyness  which  is  the  compromise  between  the  haughtiness 
of  self-esteem  and  the  painful  doubt  of  appreciation  by  others 
rapidly  melted  away.  He  caught  insensibly  the  polished 
tone,  at  once  so  light  and  so  cordial,  of  his  new-made  friends. 
With  all  the  efforts  of  the  democrats  to  establish  equality  and 
fraternity,  it  is  among  the  aristocrats  that  equality  and  fra- 
ternity are  most  to  be  found.  All  gentilshommes  in  the  best 
society  are  equals;  and  whether  they  embrace  or  fight  each 
other,  they  embrace  or  fight  as  brothers  of  the  same  family. 
But  with  the  tone  of  manners  Alain  de  Rochebriant  imbibed 
still  more  insensibly  the  lore  of  that  philosophy  which  young 
idlers  in  pursuit  of  pleasure  teach  to  each  other.  Probably  in 
all  civilized  and  luxurious  capitals  that  philosophy  is  very 
much  the  same  among  the  same  class  of  idlers  at  the  same  age; 
probably  it  nourishes  in  Pekin  not  less  than  at  Paris.  If  Paris 
has  the  credit,  or  discredit,  of  it  more  than  any  other  capital, 
it  is  because  in  Paris  more  than  in  any  other  capital  it  charms 
the  eye  by  grace  and  amuses  the  ear  by  wit.  A  philosophy 
which  takes  the  things  of  this  life  very  easily;  which  has  a 
smile  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  for  any  pretender  to  the 
Heroic;  which  subdivides  the  wealth  of  passion  into  the 
pocket-money  of  caprices,  is  always  in  or  out  of  love  ankle- 
deep,  never  venturing  a  plunge;  which,  light  of  heart  as  of 
tongue,  turns  "  the  solemn  plausibilities  "  of  earth  into  sub- 


250  THE  PARISIANS. 

jects  for  epigrams  and  bons  mots,  —  jests  at  loyalty  to  kings 
and  turns  up  its  nose  at  enthusiasm  for  commonwealths,  ab- 
jures all  grave  studies  and  shuns  all  profound  emotions.  We 
have  crowds  of  such  philosophers  in  London ;  but  there  they 
are  less  noticed,  because  the  agreeable  attributes  of  the  sect 
are  there  dimmed  and  obfuscated.  It  is  not  a  philosophy  that 
flowers  richly  in  the  reek  of  fogs  and  in  the  teeth  of  east  winds ; 
it  wants  for  full  development  the  light  atmosphere  of  Paris. 
Now  this  philosophy  began  rapidly  to  exercise  its  charms  upon 
Alain  de  Rochebriant.  Even  in  the  society  of  professed  Legit- 
imists, he  felt  that  faith  had  deserted  the  Legitimist  creed  or 
taken  refuge  only  as  a  companion  of  religion  in  the  hearts  of 
high-born  women  and  a  small  minority  of  priests.  His  chiv- 
alrous loyalty  still  struggled  to  keep  its  ground,  but  its  roots 
were  very  much  loosened.  He  saw  —  for  his  natural  intellect 
was  keen  —  that  the  cause  of  the  Bourbon  was  hopeless,  at 
least  for  the  present,  because  it  had  ceased,  at  least  for  the 
present,  to  be  a  cause.  His  political  creed  thus  shaken,  with 
it  was  shaken  also  that  adherence  to  the  past  which  had  stifled 
his  ambition  of  a  future.  That  ambition  began  to  breathe 
and  to  stir,  though  he  owned  it  not  to  others,  though,  as  yet, 
he  scarce  distinguished  its  whispers,  much  less  directed  its 
movements  towards  any  definite  object.  Meanwhile,  all  that 
he  knew  of  his  ambition  was  the  new-born  desire  for  social 
success. 

We  see  him,  then,  under  the  quick  operation  of  this  change 
in  sentiments  and  habits,  reclined  on  the  fauteuil  before  his 
fireside,  and  listening  to  his  college  friend,  of  whom  we  have 
so  long  lost  sight,  Frederic  Lernercier.  Frederic  had  break- 
fasted with  Alain, —  a  breakfast  such  as  might  have  con- 
tented the  author  of  the  "Almanach  des  Gourmands,"  and 
provided  from  the  Cafe  Anglais.  Frederic  has  just  thrown 
aside  his  regalia. 

"Pardieuf  my  clear  Alain.  If  Louvier  has  no  sinister  ob- 
ject in  the  generosity  of  his  dealings  with  you,  he  will  have 
raised  himself  prodigiously  in  my  estimation.  I  shall  for- 
sake, in  his  favour,  my  allegiance  to  Duplessis,  though  that 
clever  fellow  has  just  made  a  wondrous  coup  in  the  Egyptians, 


THE  PARISIANS. 

and  I  gain  forty  thousand  francs  by  having  followed  his  ad- 
vice. But  if  Duplessis  has  a  head  as  long  as  Louvier's,  he 
certainly  has  not  an  equal  greatness  of  soul.  Still,  my  dear 
friend,  will  you  pardon  me  if  I  speak  frankly,  and  in  the  way 
of  a  warning  homily?  " 

"Speak;  you  cannot  oblige  me  more." 

"Well,  then,  I  know  that  you  can  no  more  live  at  Paris  in 
the  way  you  are  doing,  or  mean  to  do,  without  some  fresh  ad- 
dition to  your  income,  than  a  lion  could  live  in  the  Jardin 
des  Plantes  upon  an  allowance  of  two  mice  a  week." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  Deducting  what  I  pay  to  my  aunt,  — 
and  I  cannot  get  her  to  take  more  than  six  thousand  francs  a 
year,  —  I  have  seven  hundred  napoleons  left,  net  and  clear. 
My  rooms  and  stables  are  equipped,  and  I  have  twenty-five 
hundred  francs  in  hand.  On  seven  hundred  napoleons  a  year, 
I  calculate  that  I  can  very  easily  live  as  I  do;  and  if  I  fail 
—  well,  I  must  return  to  Rochebriant.  Seven  hundred  napo- 
leons a  year  will  be  a  magnificent  rental  there." 

Frederic  shook  his  head.  "  You  do  not  know  how  one  ex- 
pense leads  to  another.  Above  all,  you  do  not  calculate  the 
chief  part  of  one's  expenditure, —  the  unforeseen.  You  will 
play  at  the  Jockey  Club,  and  lose  half  your  income  in  a 
night." 

"I  shall  never  touch  a  card." 

"  So  you  say  now,  innocent  as  a  lamb  of  the  force  of  exam- 
ple. At  all  events,  beau  seigneur,  I  presume  you  are  not  go- 
ing to  resuscitate  the  part  of  the  Ermite  de  la  Chaussee 
d'Antin;  and  the  fair  Parisiennes  are  demons  of  extrava- 
gance." 

"Demons  whom  I  shall  not  court." 

"  Did  I  say  you  would?  They  will  court  you.  Before  an- 
other month  has  flown  you  will  be  inundated  with  billets- 
doux." 

"  It  is  not  a  shower  that  will  devastate  my  humble  harvest. 
But,  mon  cher,  we  are  falling  upon  very  gloomy  topics. 
Laissez-moi  tranquille  in  my  illusions,  if  illusions  they  be. 
Ah,  you  cannot  conceive  what  a  new  life  opens  to  the  man 
who,  like  myself,  has  passed  the  dawn  of  his  youth  in  priva- 


252  THE  PARISIANS. 

tion  and  fear,  when  lie  suddenly  acquires  competence  and 
hope.  If  it  lasts  only  a  year,  it  will  be  something  to  say 
'Vixi.'" 

"Alain,"  said  Frederic,  very  earnestly,  "believe  me,  I 
should  not  have  assumed  the  ungracious  and  inappropriate 
task  of  Mentor,  if  it  were  only  a  year's  experience  at  stake, 
or  if  you  were  in  the  position  of  men  like  myself, —  free  from 
the  encumbrance  of  a  great  name  and  heavily  mortgaged 
lands.  Should  you  fail  to  pay  regularly  the  interest  due  to 
Louvier,  he  has  the  power  to  put  up  at  public  auction,  and 
there  to  buy  in  for  himself,  your  chateau  and  domain." 

"  I  arn  aware  that  in  strict  law  he  would  have  such  power, 
though  I  doubt  if  he  would  use  it.  Louvier  is  certainly  a 
much  better  and  more  generous  fellow  than  I  could  have  ex- 
pected; and  if  I  believe  De  Finisterre,  he  has  taken  a  sincere 
liking  to  me  on  account  of  affection  to  my  poor  father.  But 
why  should  not  the  interest  be  paid  regularly?  The  revenues 
from  Rochebriant  are  not  likely  to  decrease,  and  the  charge 
on  them  is  lightened  by  the  contract  with  Louvier.  And  I 
will  confide  to  you  a  hope  I  entertain  of  a  very  large  addition 
to  my  rental." 

"How?" 

"  A  chief  part  of  my  rental  is  derived  from  forests,  and  De 
Finisterre  has  heard  of  a  capitalist  who  is  disposed  to  make  a 
contract  for  their  sale  at  the  fall  this  year,  and  may  probably 
extend  it  to  future  years,  at  a  price  far  exceeding  that  which 
I  have  hitherto  obtained." 

"Pray  be  cautious.  De  Finisterre  is  not  a  man  I  should 
implicitly  trust  in  such  matters." 

"Why?  Do  you  know  anything  against  him?  He  is  in  the 
best  society, —  perfect  gentilhomme, —  and,  as  his  name  may 
tell  you,  a  fellow-Breton.  You  yourself  allow,  and  so  does 
Enguerrand,  that  the  purchases  he  made  for  me  —  in  this 
apartment,  my  horses,  etc.  — are  singularly  advantageous." 

"Quite  true;  the  Chevalier  is  reputed  sharp  and  clever,  is 
said  to  be  very  amusing,  and  a  first-rate  piquet-player.  I 
don't  know  him  personally, —  I  am  not  in  his  set.  I  have  no 
valid  reason  to  disparage  his  character,  nor  do  I  conjecture 


THE  PARISIANS.  253 

any  motive  he  could  have  to  injure  or  mislead  you.  Still, 
I  say,  be  cautious  how  far  you  trust  to  his  advice  or  re- 
commendation. " 

"Again  I  ask  why?" 

"He  is  unlucky  to  his  friends.  He  attaches  himself  much 
to  men  younger  than  himself;  and  somehow  or  other  I  have 
observed  that  most  of  them  have  come  to  grief.  Besides, 
a  person  in  whose  sagacity  I  have  great  confidence  warned 
me  against  making  the  Chevalier's  acquaintance,  and  said 
to  me,  in  his  blunt  way,  'De  Finisterre  came  to  Paris  with 
nothing;  he  has  succeeded  to  nothing;  he  belongs  to  no 
ostensible  profession  by  which  anything  can  be  made.  But 
evidently  now  he  has  picked  up  a  good  deal ;  and  in  propor- 
tion as  any  young  associate  of  his  becomes  poorer,  De  Finis- 
terre  seems  mysteriously  to  become  richer.  Shun  that  sort 
of  acquaintance.'' 

"Who  is  your  sagacious  adviser?" 

"Duplessis." 

"Ah,  I  thought  so.  That  bird  of  prey  fancies  every  other 
bird  looking  out  for  pigeons.  I  fancy  that  Duplessis  is,  like 
all  those  money-getters,  a  seeker  after  fashion,  and  De 
Finisterre  has  not  returned  his  bow." 

"  My  dear  Alain,  I  am  to  blame ;  nothing  is  so  irritating  as 
a  dispute  about  the  worth  of  the  men  we  like.  I  began  it, 
now  let  it  be  dropped;  only  make  me  one  promise, — that  if 
you  should  be  in  arrear,  or  if  need  presses,  you  will  come  at 
once  to  me.  It  was  very  well  to  be  absurdly  proud  in  an 
attic,  but  that  pride  will  be  out  of  place  in  your  appartement 
au  prem/ier." 

"  You  are  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  Frederic,  and  I 
make  you  the  promise  you  ask,"  said  Alain,  cheerfully,  but 
yet  with  a  secret  emotion  of  tenderness  and  gratitude.  "And 
now,  mon  cher,  what  day  will  you  dine  with  me  to  meet  Kaoul 
and  Enguerrand,  and  some  others  whom  you  would  like  to 
know?  " 

"Thanks,  and  hearty  ones,  but  we  move  now  in  different 
spheres,  and  I  shall  not  trespass  on  yours.  Je  suis  trop 
bourgeois  to  incur  the  ridicule  of  le  bourgeois  gentilhomme." 


254  THE  PARISIANS. 

"Frederic,  how  dare  you  speak  thus?  My  dear  fellow,  my 
friends  shall  honour  you  as  I  do." 

"But  that  will  be  on  your  account,  not  mine.  No;  hon- 
estly that  kind  of  society  neither  tempts  nor  suits  me.  I  am 
a  sort  of  king  in  my  own  walk ;  and  I  prefer  my  Bohemian 
royalty  to  vassalage  in  higher  regions.  Say  no  more  of  it. 
It  will  flatter  my  vanity  enough  if  you  will  now  and  then  de- 
scend to  my  coteries,  and  allow  me  to  parade  a  Rochebriant 
as  my  familiar  crony,  slap  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  call  him 
Alain." 

"Fie!  you  who  stopped  me  and  the  English  aristocrat  in 
the  Champs  Elysees,  to  humble  us  with  your  boast  of  having 
fascinated  une  grande  dame, —  I  think  you  said  a  duchesse." 

"Oh,"  said  Lemercier,  conceitedly,  and  passing  his  hand 
through  his  scented  locks,  "women  are  different;  love  levels 
all  ranks.  I  don't  blame  Kuy  Bias  for  accepting  the  love  of 
a  queen,  but  I  do  blame  him  for  passing  himself  off  as  a 
noble,  —  a  plagiarism,  by  the  by,  from  an  English  play.  I  do 
not  love  the  English  enough  to  copy  them.  A  propos,  what 
has  become  of  ce  beau  Grarm  Yarn?  I  have  not  seen  him  of 
late." 

"Neither  have  I." 

"Nor  the  belle  Italienne?" 

"Nor  her,"  said  Alain,  slightly  blushing. 

At  this  moment  Enguerrand  lounged  into  the  room.  Alain 
stopped  Lemercier  to  introduce  him  to  his  kinsman. 
"Enguerrand,  I  present  to  you  M.  Lemercier,  my  earliest 
and  one  of  my  dearest  friends." 

The  young  noble  held  out  his  hand  with  the  bright  and  joy- 
ous grace  which  accompanied  all  his  movements,  and  ex- 
pressed in  cordial  words  his  delight  to  make  M.  Lemercier's 
acquaintance.  Bold  and  assured  as  Frederic  was  in  his  own 
circles,  he  was  more  discomposed  than  set  at  ease  by  the  gra- 
cious accost  of  a  lion,  whom  he  felt  at  once  to  be  of  a  breed 
superior  to  his  own.  He  muttered  some  confused  phrases,  in 
which  ravi  andftatte  were  alone  audible,  and  evanished. 

"  I  know  ]\I.  Lemercier  by  sight  very  well,"  said  Enguerrand, 
seating  himself.  "One  sees  him  very  often  in  the  Bois;  and 


THE  PARISIANS.  255 

I  have  met  him  in  the  Coulisses  and  the  Bal  Mabille.  I 
think,  too,  that  he  plays  at  the  Bourse,  and  is  lie  with  M. 
Duplessis,  who  bids  fair  to  rival  Louvier  one  of  these  days. 
Is  Duplessis  also  one  of  your  dearest  friends?" 

"No,  indeed.  I  once  met  him,  and  was  not  prepossessed  in 
his  favour." 

"Nevertheless,  he  is  a  man  much  to  be  admired  and 
respected." 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  he  understands  so  well  the  art  of  making  what 
we  all  covet, —  money.  I  will  introduce  you  to  him." 

"I  have  been  already  introduced." 

"Then  I  will  re-introduce  you.  He  is  much  courted  in  a 
society  which  I  have  recently  been  permitted  by  my  father  to 
frequent,  —  the  society  of  the  Imperial  Court." 

"  You  frequent  that  society,  and  the  Count  permits  it?  " 

"Yes;  better  the  Imperialists  than  the  Republicans;  and 
my  father  begins  to  own  that  truth,  though  he  is  too  old  or 
too  indolent  to  act  on  it." 

"And  Raoul?" 

"Oh,  Raoul,  the  melancholy  and  philosophical  Raoul,  has 
no  ambition  of  any  kind,  so  long  as  —  thanks  somewhat  to  me 
—  his  purse  is  always  replenished  for  the  wants  of  his  stately 
existence,  among  the  foremost  of  which  wants  are  the  means 
to  supply  the  wants  of  others.  That  is  the  true  reason  why 
he  consents  to  our  glove-shop.  Raoul  belongs,  with  some 
other  young  men  of  the  Faubourg,  to  a  society  enrolled  under 
the  name  of  Saint  Fra^ois  de  Sales,  for  the  relief  of  the 
poor.  He  visits  their  houses,  and  is  at  home  by  their  sick- 
beds as  at  their  stinted  boards.  Nor  does  he  confine  his  visi- 
tations to  the  limits  of  our  Faubourg;  he  extends  his  travels 
to  Montmartre  and  Belleville.  As  to  our  upper  world,  he 
does  not  concern  himself  much  with  its  changes.  He  says 
that  we  have  destroyed  too  much  ever  to  rebuild  solidly;  and 
that  whatever  we  do  build  could  be  upset  any  day  by  a  Paris 
mob,  which  he  declares  to  be  the  only  institution  we  have 
left.  A  wonderful  fellow  is  Raoul, —  full  of  mind,  though  he 
does  little  with  it;  full  of  heart,  which  he  devotes  to  suffering 


256  THE  PARISIANS. 

humanity,  and  to  a  poetic,  knightly  reverence  (not  to  be  con- 
founded with  earthly  love,  and  not  to  be  degraded  into  that 
sickly  sentiment  called  Platonic  affection)  for  the  Comtesse 
di  Eimini,  who  is  six  years  older  than  himself,  and  who  is 
very  faithfully  attached  to  her  husband,  Eaoul's  intimate 
friend,  whose  honour  he  would  guard  as  his  own.  It  is  an 
episode  in  the  drama  of  Parisian  life,  and  one  not  so  uncom- 
mon as  the  malignant  may  suppose.  Di  E-imini  knows  and 
approves  of  his  veneration;  my  mother,  the  best  of  women, 
sanctions  it,  and  deems  truly  that  it  preserves  Raoul  safe 
from  all  the  temptations  to  which  ignobler  youth  is  exposed. 
I  mention  this  lest  you  should  imagine  there  was  anything 
in  Raoul's  worship  of  his  star  less  pure  than  it  is.  For  the 
rest,  Raoul,  to  the  grief  and  amazement  of  that  disciple  of 
Voltaire,  my  respected  father,  is  one  of  the  very  few  men  I 
know  in  our  circles  who  is  sincerely  religious, —  an  orthodox 
Catholic, —  and  the  only  man  I  know  who  practises  the  reli- 
gion he  professes ;  charitable,  chaste,  benevolent ;  and  no  bigot, 
no  intolerant  ascetic.  His  only  weakness  is  his  entire  sub- 
mission to  the  worldly  common-sense  of  his  good-for-nothing, 
covetous,  ambitious  brother  Enguerrand.  I  cannot  say  how  I 
love  him  for  that.  If  he  had  not  such  a  weakness,  his  excel- 
lence would  gall  me,  and  I  believe  I  should  hate  him." 

Alain  bowed  his  head  at  this  eulogiuni.  Such  had  been  the 
character  that  a  few  months  ago  he  would  have  sought  as 
example  and  model.  He  seemed  to  gaze  upon  a  nattered 
portrait  of  himself  as  he  had  been. 

"But,"  said  Enguerrand,  "I  have  not  come  here  to  indulge 
in  the  overflow  of  brotherly  affection.  I  come  to  take  you  to 
your  relation,  the  Duchesse  of  Tarascon.  I  have  pledged  my- 
self to  her  to  bring  you,  and  she  is  at  home  on  purpose  to 
receive  you." 

"  In  that  case  I  cannot  be  such  a  churl  as  to  refuse.  And, 
indeed,  I  no  longer  feel  quite  the  same  prejudices  against  her 
and  the  Imperialists  as  I  brought  from  Bretagne.  Shall  I 
order  my  carriage?" 

"  No ;  mine  is  at  the  door.  Yours  can  meet  you  where  you 
will,  later.  Allans." 


THE  PARISIANS.  257 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  occupied  a  vast  apartment  in 
the  Rue  Royale,  close  to  the  Tuileries.  She  held  a  high  post 
among  the  ladies  who  graced  the  brilliant  court  of  the  Em- 
press. She  had  survived  her  second  husband  the  duke,  who 
left  no  issue,  and  the  title  died  with  him. 

Alain  and  Enguerrand  were  ushered  up  the  grand  staircase, 
lined  with  tiers  of  costly  exotics  as  if  for  a,  fete;  but  in  that 
and  in  all  kinds  of  female  luxury,  the  Duchesse  lived  in  a  state 
of  fete  perpetuelle.  The  doors  on  the  landing-place  were 
screened  by  heavy  portieres  of  Genoa  velvet,  richly  embroid- 
ered in  gold  with  the  ducal  crown  and  cipher.  The  two 
salons  through  which  the  visitors  passed  to  the  private  cab- 
inet or  boudoir  were  decorated  with  Gobelin  tapestries,  fresh, 
with  a  mixture  of  roseate  hues,  and  depicting  incidents  in 
the  career  of  the  first  emperor;  while  the  effigies  of  the  late 
duke's  father  —  the  gallant  founder  of  a  short-lived  race  — 
figured  modestly  in  the  background.  On  a  table  of  Russian 
malachite  within  the  recess  of  the  central  window  lay,  pre- 
served in  glass  cases,  the  baton  and  the  sword,  the  epau- 
lettes and  the  decorations  of  the  brave  Marshal.  On  the 
consoles  and  the  mantelpieces  stood  clocks  and  vases  of  Sevres 
that  could  scarcely  be  eclipsed  by  those  in  the  Imperial  pal- 
aces. Entering  the  cabinet,  they  found  the  Duchesse  seated  at 
her  writing-table,  with  a  small  Skye  terrier,  hideous  in  the 
beauty  of  the  purest  breed,  nestled  at  her  feet.  This  room 
was  an  exquisite  combination  of  costliness  and  comfort, — 
Luxury  at  home.  The  hangings  were  of  geranium-coloured 
silk,  with  double  curtains  of  white  satin;  near  to  the  writing- 
table  a  conservatory,  with  a  white  marble  fountain  at  play  in 
the  centre,  and  a  trellised  aviary  at  the  back.  The  walls 
were  covered  with  small  pictures,  —  chiefly  portraits  and 
miniatures  of  the  members  of  the  imperial  family,  of  the 

VOL.  I.  — 17 


258  THE  PARISIANS. 

late  Due,  of  his  father  the  Marshal  and  Madame  la  Mare"- 
chale,  of  the  present  Duchesse  herself,  and  of  some  of  the 
principal  ladies  of  the  court. 

The  Duchesse  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life.  She  had  passed 
her  fortieth  year,  but  was  so  well  "  conserved  "  that  you  might 
have  guessed  her  to  be  ten  years  younger.  She  was  tall ;  not 
large,  but  with  rounded  figure  inclined  to  en  bon  point ;  with 
dark  hair  and  eyes,  but  fair  complexion,  injured  in  effect 
rather  than  improved  by  pearl-powder,  and  that  atrocious 
barbarism  of  a  dark  stain  on  the  eyelids  which  has  of  late 
years  been  a  baneful  fashion;  dressed, —  I  am  a  man,  and 
cannot  describe  her  dress;  all  I  know  is  that  she  had  the  ac- 
knowledged fame  of  the  best-dressed  subject  of  France.  As 
she  rose  from  her  seat  there  was  in  her  look  and  air  the  un- 
mistakable evidence  of  grande  dame, — a  family  likeness  in 
feature  to  Alain  himself,  a  stronger  likeness  to  the  picture  of 
her  first  cousin  (his  mother)  which  was  preserved  at  Eoche- 
briant.  Her  descent  was  indeed  from  ancient  and  noble 
houses.  But  to  the  distinction  of  race  she  added  that  of 
fashion,  crowning  both  with  a  tranquil  consciousness  of  lofty 
position  and  unblemished  reputation. 

"  Unnatural  cousin !  "  she  said  to  Alain,  offering  her  hand  to 
him,  with  a  gracious  smile, —  "all  this  age  in  Paris,  and  I  see 
you  for  the  first  time.  But  there  is  joy  on  earth  as  in  heaven 
over  sinners  who  truly  repent.  You  repent  truly  —  n'est  ce 
pas  ?  " 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  caressing  charm  which  the 
Duchesse  threw  into  her  words,  voice,  and  look.  Alain  was 
fascinated  and  subdued. 

"Ah,  Madame  la  Duchesse,"  said  he,  bowing  over  the  fair 
hand  he  lightly  held,  "it  was  not  sin,  unless  modesty  be  a 
sin,  which  made  a  rustic  hesitate  long  before  he  dared  to  offer 
his  homage  to  the  queen  of  the  graces." 

"Not  badly  said  for  a  rustic,"  cried  Enguerrand;  "eh, 
Madame?" 

"My  cousin,  you  are  pardoned,"  said  the  Duchesse.  "Com- 
pliment is  the  perfume  of  gentilhommerie;  and  if  you  brought 
enough  of  that  perfume  from  the  flowers  of  Kochebriant  to 


THE  PARISIANS.  259 

distribute  among  the  ladies  at  court,  you  will  be  terribly  the 
mode  there.  Seducer!  "  —  here  she  gave  the  Marquis  a  play- 
ful tap  on  the  cheek,  not  in  a  coquettish  but  in  a  mother-like 
familiarity,  and  looking  at  him  attentively,  said:  "Why, 
you  are  even  handsomer  than  your  father.  I  shall  be  proud 
to  present  to  their  Imperial  Majesties  so  becoming  a  cousin. 
But  seat  yourselves  here,  Messieurs,  close  to  my  arm-chair, 
causons." 

The  Duchesse  then  took  up  the  ball  of  the  conversation.  She 
talked  without  any  apparent  artifice,  but  with  admirable  tact; 
put  just  the  questions  about  Rochebriant  most  calculated  to 
please  Alain,  shunning  all  that  might  have  pained  him ;  ask- 
ing him  for  descriptions  of  the  surrounding  scenery,  the 
Breton  legends;  hoping  that  the  old  castle  would  never  be 
spoiled  by  modernizing  restorations ;  inquiring  tenderly  after 
his  aunt,  whom  she  had  in  her  childhood  once  seen,  and  still 
remembered  with  her  sweet,  grave  face ;  paused  little  for  re- 
plies; then  turned  to  Enguerrand  with  sprightly  small-talk 
on  the  topics  of  the  day,  and  every  now  and  then  bringing 
Alain  into  the  pale  of  the  talk,  leading  on  insensibly  until 
she  got  Enguerrand  himself  to  introduce  the  subject  of  the 
emperor,  and  the  political  troubles  which  were  darkening  a 
reign  heretofore  so  prosperous  and  splendid. 

Her  countenance  then  changed;  it  became  serious,  and  even 
grave  in  its  expression. 

"It  is  true,"  she  said,  "that  the  times  grow  menacing, — 
menacing  not  only  to  the  throne,  but  to  order  and  property 
and  Erance.  One  by  one  they  are  removing  all  the  break- 
waters which  the  empire  had  constructed  between  the  execu- 
tive and  the  most  fickle  and  impulsive  population  that  ever 
shouted  'long  live '  one  day  to  the  man  whom  they  would 
send  to  the  guillotine  the  next.  They  are  denouncing  what 
they  call  personal  government.  Grant  that  it  has  its  evils ; 
but  what  would  they  substitute, —  a  constitutional  monarchy 
like  the  English?  That  is  impossible  with  universal  suffrage 
and  without  an  hereditary  chamber.  The  nearest  approach 
to  it  was  the  monarchy  of  Louis  Philippe, —  we  know  how 
sick  they  became  of  that.  A  republic?  —  mon  Dieu!  com- 


260  THE   PARISIANS. 

posed  of  Republicans  terrified  out  of  their  wits  at  each  other. 
The  moderate  men,  mimics  of  the  Girondins,  with  the  Reds 
and  the  Socialists  and  the  Communists,  ready  to  tear  them 
to  pieces.  And  then  —  What  then?  —  the  commercialists,  the 
agriculturists,  the  middle  class  combining  to  elect  some  dic- 
tator who  will  cannonade  the  mob  and  become  a  mimic 
Napoleon,  grafted  on  a  mimic  Necker  or  a  mimic  Danton. 
Oh,  Messieurs,  I  am  French  to  the  core.  You  inheritors  of 
such  names  must  be  as  French  as  I  am ;  and  yet  you  men  in- 
sist on  remaining  more  useless  to  France  in  the  midst  of  her 
need  than  I  am, —  I,  a  woman  who  can  but  talk  and  weep." 

The  Duchesse  spoke  with  a  warmth  of  emotion  which 
startled  and  profoundly  affected  Alain.  He  remained  silent, 
leaving  it  to  Enguerrand  to  answer. 

"Dear  Madame,"  said  the  latter,  "I  do  not  see  how  either 
myself  or  our  kinsman  can  merit  your  reproach.  We  are 
not  legislators.  I  doubt  if  there  is  a  single  department  in 
France  that  would  elect  us,  if  we  offered  ourselves.  It  is  not 
our  fault  if  the  various  floods  of  revolution  leave  men  of  our 
birth  and  opinions  stranded  wrecks  of  a  perished  world.  The 
emperor  chooses  his  own  advisers,  and  if  they  are  bad  ones, 
his  Majesty  certainly  will  not  ask  Alain  and  me  to  replace 
them." 

"You  do  not  answer  —  you  evade  me,"  said  the  Duchesse; 
with  a  mournful  smile.  "  You  are  too  skilled  a  man  of  the 
world,  Monsieur  Enguerrand,  not  to  know  that  it  is  not  only 
legislators  and  ministers  that  are  necessary  to  the  support  of 
a  throne,  and  the  safeguard  of  a  nation.  Do  you  not  see  how 
great  a  help  it  is  to  both  throne  and  nation  when  that  section 
of  public  opinion  which  is  represented  by  names  illustrious 
in  history,  identified  with  records  of  chivalrous  deeds  and 
loyal  devotion,  rallies  round  the  order  established?  Let 
that  section  of  public  opinion  stand  aloof,  soured  and  discon- 
tented, excluded  from  active  life,  lending  no  counter-balance 
to  the  perilous  oscillations  of  democratic  passion,  and  tell  me 
if  it  is  not  an  enemy  to  itself  as  well  as  a  traitor  to  the  prin- 
ciples it  embodies?" 

"The  principles  it  embodies,  Madame,"  said  Alain,   "are 


THE  PARISIANS.  261 

those  of  fidelity  to  a  race  of  kings  unjustly  set  aside,  less  for 
the  vices  than  the  virtues  of  ancestors.  Louis  XV.  was  the 
worst  of  the  Bourbons, — he  was  the  lien  aime :  he  escapes. 
Louis  XVI.  was  in  moral  attributes  the  best  of  the  Bourbons, 
—  he  dies  the  death  of  a  felon.  Louis  XVIII.,  against  whom 
much  may  be  said,  restored  to  the  throne  by  foreign  bayonets, 
reigning  as  a  disciple  of  Voltaire  might  reign,  secretly  scoff- 
ing alike  at  the  royalty  and  the  religion  which  were  crowned 
in  his  person,  dies  peacefully  in  his  bed.  Charles  X.,  re- 
deeming the  errors  of  his  youth  by  a  reign  untarnished  by  a 
vice,  by  a  religion  earnest  and  sincere,  is  sent  into  exile  for 
defending  established  order  from  the  very  inroads  which  you 
lament.  He  leaves  an  heir  against  whom  calumny  cannot  in- 
vent a  tale,  and  that  heir  remains  an  outlaw  simply  because 
he  descends  from  Henry  IV.,  and  has  a  right  to  reign.  Ma- 
dame, you  appeal  to  us  as  among  the  representatives  of  the 
chivalrous  deeds  and  loyal  devotion  which  characterized  the 
old  nobility  of  France.  Should  we  deserve  that  character  if 
we  forsook  the  unfortunate,  and  gained  wealth  and  honour 
in  forsaking?  " 

"  Your  words  endear  you  to  me.  I  am  proud  to  call  you 
cousin,"  said  the  Duchesse.  "But  do  you,  or  does  any  man  in 
his  senses  believe  that  if  you  upset  the  Empire  you  could  get 
back  the  Bourbons ;  that  you  would  not  be  in  imminent  dan- 
ger of  a  Government  infinitely  more  opposed  to  the  theories 
on  which  rests  the  creed  of  Legitimists  than  that  of  Louis 
Napoleon?  After  all,  what  is  there  in  the  loyalty  of  you 
Bourbonites  that  has  in  it  the  solid  worth  of  an  argument 
which  can  appeal  to  the  comprehension  of  mankind,  except  it 
•be  the  principle  of  a  hereditary  monarchy?  Nobody  nowadays 
can  maintain  the  right  divine  of  a  single  regal  family  to  im- 
pose itself  upon  a  nation.  That  dogma  has  ceased  to  be  a  liv- 
ing principle;  it  is  only  a  dead  reminiscence.  But  the 
institution  of  monarchy  is  a  principle  strong  and  vital,  and 
appealing  to  the  practical  interests  of  vast  sections  of  society. 
Would  you  sacrifice  the  principle  which  concerns  the  welfare 
of  millions,  because  you  cannot  embody  it  in  the  person  of  an 
individual  utterly  insignificant  in  himself?  In  a  word,  if  you 


262  THE  PARISIANS. 

prefer  monarchy  to  the  hazard  of  republicanism  for  such  a 
country  as  France,  accept  the  monarchy  you  find,  since  it  is 
quite  clear  you  cannot  rebuild  the  monarchy  you  would  pre- 
fer. Does  it  not  embrace  all  the  great  objects  for  which  you 
call  yourself  Legitimist?  Under  it  religion  is  honoured,  a 
national  Church  secured,  in  reality  if  not  in  name;  under  it 
you  have  united  the  votes  of  millions  to  the  establishment  of 
the  throne ;  under  it  all  the  material  interests  of  the  country, 
commercial,  agricultural,  have  advanced  with  an  unequalled 
rapidity  of  progress ;  under  it  Paris  has  become  the  wonder  of 
the  world  for  riches,  for  splendour,  for  grace  and  beauty; 
under  it  the  old  traditional  enemies  of  France  have  been 
humbled  and  rendered  impotent.  The  policy  of  Richelieu 
has  been  achieved  in  the  abasement  of  Austria;  the  policy  of 
Napoleon  I.  has  been  consummated  in  the  salvation  of  Europe 
from  the  semi-barbarous  ambition  of  Russia.  England  no 
longer  casts  her  trident  in  the  opposition  scale  of  the  balance 
of  European  power.  Satisfied  with  the  honour  of  our  alli- 
ance, she  has  lost  every  other  ally ;  and  her  forces  neglected, 
her  spirit  enervated,  her  statesmen  dreaming  believers  in  the 
safety  of  their  island,  provided  they  withdraw  from  the 
affairs  of  Europe,  may  sometimes  scold  us,  but  will  certainly 
not  dare  to  fight.  With  France  she  is  but  an  inferior  satel- 
lite; without  France  she  is  —  nothing.  Add  to  all  this  a 
court  more  brilliant  than  that  of  Louis  XIV.,  a  sovereign  not 
indeed  without  faults  and  errors,  but  singularly  mild  in  his 
nature,  warm-hearted  to  friends,  forgiving  to  foes,  whom  per- 
sonally no  one  could  familiarly  know  and  not  be  charmed 
with  a  lonte  of  character,  lovable  as  that  of  Henri  IV., — and 
tell  me  what  more  than  all  this  could  you  expect  from  the 
reign  of  a  Bourbon?" 

"  With  such  results, "  said  Alain,  "  from  the  monarchy  you 
so  eloquently  praise,  I  fail  to  discover  what  the  emperor's 
throne  could  possibly  gain  by  a  few  powerless  converts  from 
an  unpopular,  and  you  say,  no  doubt  truly,  from  a  hopeless 
cause." 

"  I  say  monarchy  gains  much  by  the  loyal  adhesion  of  any 
man  of  courage,  ability,  and  honour.  Every  new  monarchy 


THE  PARISIANS.  263 

gains  much  by  conversions  from  the  ranks  by  which  the  older 
monarchies  were  strengthened  and  adorned.  But  I  do  not 
here  invoke  your  aid  merely  to  this  monarchy,  my  cousin;  I 
demand  your  devotion  to  the  interests  of  France;  I  demand 
that  you  should  not  rest  an  outlaw  from  her  service.  Ah, 
you  think  that  France  is  in  no  danger,  that  you  may  desert 
or  oppose  the  Empire  as  you  list,  and  that  society  will  remain 
safe!  You  are  mistaken.  Ask  Enguerrand." 

"Madame,"  said  Enguerrand,  "you  overrate  my  political 
knowledge  in  that  appeal;  but,  honestly  speaking,  I  sub- 
scribe to  your  reasonings.  I  agree  with  you  that  the  empire 
sorely  needs  the  support  of  men  of  honour;  it  has  one  cause 
of  rot  which  now  undermines  it, —  dishonest  jobbery  in  its 
administrative  departments;  even  in  that  of  the  army,  which 
apparently  is  so  heeded  and  cared  for.  I  agree  with  you  that 
France  is  in  danger,  and  may  need  the  swords  of  all  her  better 
sons,  whether  against  the  foreigner  or  against  her  worst  ene- 
mies,—  the  mobs  of  her  great  towns.  I  myself  received  a 
military  education,  and  but  for  my  reluctance  to  separate  my- 
self from  my  father  and  Raoul,  I  should  be  a  candidate  for 
employments  more  congenial  to  me  than  those  of  the  Bourse 
and  my  trade  in  the  glove-shop.  But  Alain  is  happily  free 
from  all  family  ties,  and  Alain  knows  that  my  advice  to  him 
is  not  hostile  to  your  exhortations." 

"I  am  glad  to  think  he  is  under  so  salutary  an  influence," 
said  the  Duchesse ;  and  seeing  that  Alain  remained  silent  and 
thoughtful,  she  wisely  changed  the  subject,  and  shortly  after- 
wards the  two  friends  took  leave. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THREE  days  elapsed  before  Graham  again  saw  M.  Lebeau. 
The  letter-writer  did  not  show  himself  at  the  co/e,  and  was 
not  to  be  found  at  his  office,  the  ordinary  business  of  which 
was  transacted  by  his  clerk,  saying  that  his  master  was  much 
engaged  on  important  matters  that  took  him  from  home. 


264  THE  PARISIANS. 

Graham  naturally  thought  that  these  matters  concerned  the 
discovery  of  Louise  Duval,  and  was  reconciled  to  suspense. 
At  the  cafe,  awaiting  Lebeau,  he  had  slid  into  some  acquaint- 
ance with  the  ouvrier  Armand  Monnier,  whose  face  and  talk 
had  before  excited  his  interest.  Indeed,  the  acquaintance 
had  been  commenced  by  the  ouvrier,  who  seated  himself  at  a 
table  near  to  Graham's,  and,  after  looking  at  him  earnestly 
for  some  minutes,  said,  "  You  are  waiting  for  your  antagonist 
at  dominos,  M.  Lebeau, —  a  very  remarkable  man." 

"  So  he  seems.  I  know,  however,  but  little  of  him.  You, 
perhaps,  have  known  him  longer?  " 

"  Several  months.  Many  of  your  countrymen  frequent  this 
cafe,  but  you  do  not  seem  to  care  to  associate  with  the 
blouses." 

"It  is  not  that;  but  we  islanders  are  shy,  and  don't  make 
acquaintance  with  each  other  readily.  By  the  way,  since  you 
so  courteously  accost  me,  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  saying 
that  I  overheard  you  defend  the  other  night,  against  one  of 
my  countrymen,  who  seemed  to  me  to  talk  great  nonsense, 
the  existence  of  le  ban  Dieu.  You  had  much  the  best  of  it. 
I  rather  gathered  from  your  argument  that  you  went  some- 
what further,  and  were  not  too  enlightened  to  admit  of 
Christianity." 

Armand  Monnier  looked  pleased.  He  liked  praise;  and  he 
liked  to  hear  himself  talk,  and  he  plunged  at  once  into  a  very 
complicated  sort  of  Christianity, —  partly  Arian,  partly  Saint 
Simonian,  with  a  little  of  Rousseau  and  a  great  deal  of 
Armand  Monnier.  Into  this  we  need  not  follow  him;  but,  in 
sum,  it  was  a  sort  of  Christianity,  the  main  heads  of  which 
consisted  in  the  removal  of  your  neighbour's  landmarks,  in 
the  right  of  the  poor  to  appropriate  the  property  of  the  rich, 
in  the  right  of  love  to  dispense  with  marriage,  and  the  duty 
of  the  State  to  provide  for  any  children  that  might  result 
from  such  union, — the  parents  being  incapacitated  to  do  so, 
as  whatever  they  might  leave  was  due  to  the  treasury  in  com- 
mon. Graham  listened  to  these  doctrines  with  melancholy 
not  unmixed  with  contempt.  "Are  these  opinions  of  yours," 
he  asked,  "derived  from  reading  or  your  own  reflection?" 


THE  PARISIANS.  265 

"  Well,  from  both,  but  from  circumstances  in  life  that  in- 
duced me  to  read  and  reflect.  I  am  one  of  the  many  victims 
of  the  tyrannical  law  of  marriage.  When  very  young  I  mar- 
ried a  woman  who  made  me  miserable,  and  then  forsook  me. 
Morally,  she  has  ceased  to  be  my  wife;  legally,  she  is.  I 
then  met  with  another  woman  who  suits  me,  who  loves  me. 
She  lives  with  me;  I  cannot  marry  her;  she  has  to  submit  to 
humiliations,  to  be  called  contemptuously  tin  ouvrier's  mis- 
tress. Then,  though  before  I  was  only  a  Eepublican,  I  felt 
there  was  something  wrong  in  society  which  needed  a  greater 
change  than  that  of  a  merely  political  government;  and  then, 
too,  when  I  was  all  troubled  and  sore,  I  chanced  to  read  one 
of  Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  bpoks.  A  glorious  genius  that 
woman's !  " 

"  She  has  genius,  certainly, "  said  Graham,  with  a  keen  pang 
at  his  heart, —  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  the  dearest  friend  of 
Isaura!  "But,"  he  added,  "though  I  believe  that  eloquent 
author  has  indirectly  assailed  certain  social  institutions,  in- 
cluding that  of  marriage,  I  am  perfectly  persuaded  that  she 
never  designed  to  effect  such  complete  overthrow  of  the  sys- 
tem which  all  civilized  communities  have  hitherto  held  in 
reverence  as  your  doctrines  would  attempt;  and,  after  all, 
she  but  expresses  her  ideas  through  the  medium  of  fabulous 
incidents  and  characters.  And  men  of  your  sense  should  not 
look  for  a  creed  in  the  fictions  of  poets  and  romance-writers." 

"Ah,"  said  Monnier,  "I  dare  say  neither  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil  nor  even  Rousseau  ever  even  guessed  the  ideas 
they  awoke  in  their  readers ;  but  one  idea  leads  on  to  another. 
And  genuine  poetry  and  romance  touch  the  heart  so  much 
more  than  dry  treatises.  In  a  word,  Madame  de  Grantmesnil's 
book  set  me  thinking;  and  then  I  read  other  books,  and  talked 
with  clever  men,  and  educated  myself.  And  so  I  became  the 
man  I  am."  Here,  with  a  self-satisfied  air,  Monnier  bowed 
to  the  Englishman,  and  joined  a  group  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room. 

The  next  evening,  just  before  dusk,  Graham  Vane  was  seated 
musingly  in  his  own  apartment  in  the  Faubourg  Montmartre, 
when  there  came  a  slight  knock  at  his  door.  He  was  so 


266  THE  PARISIANS. 

wrapped  in  thought  that  he  did  not  hear  the  sound,  though 
twice  repeated.  The  door  opened  gently,  and  M.  Lebeau 
appeared  on  the  threshold.  The  room  was  lighted  only  by 
the  gas-lamp  from  the  street  without. 

Lebeau  advanced  through  the  gloom,  and  quietly  seated 
himself  in  the  corner  of  the  fireplace  opposite  to  Graham  be- 
fore he  spoke.  "A  thousand  pardons  for  disturbing  your 
slumbers,  Monsieur  Lamb." 

Startled  then  by  the  voice  so  near  him,  Graham  raised  his 
head,  looked  round,  and  beheld  very  indistinctly  the  person 
seated  so  near  him. 

"Monsieur  Lebeau?  " 

"At  your  service.  I  promise  to  give  an  answer  to  your 
question;  accept  my  apologies  that  it  has  been  deferred  so 
long.  I  shall  not  this  evening  go  to  our  cafe.  I  took  the 
liberty  of  calling  —  " 

"Monsieur  Lebeau,  you  are  a  brick." 

"  A  what,  Monsieur !  —  a  brique  ?  " 

"I  forgot;  you  are  not  up  to  our  fashionable  London  idioms. 
A  brick  means  a  jolly  fellow,  and  it  is  very  kind  in  you  to 
call.  What  is  your  decision?" 

"Monsieur,  I  can  give  you  some  information,  but  it  is  so 
slight  that  I  offer  it  gratis,  and  forego  all  thought  of  under- 
taking further  inquiries.  They  could  only  be  prosecuted  in 
another  country,  and  it  would  not  be  worth  my  while  to  leave 
Paris  on  the  chance  of  gaining  so  trifling  a  reward  as  you 
propose.  Judge  for  yourself.  In  the  year  1849,  and  in  the 
month  of  July,  Louise  Duval  left  Paris  for  Aix-la-Chapelle. 
There  she  remained  some  weeks,  and  then  left  it.  I  can 
learn  no  further  traces  of  her  movements." 

"  Aix-la-Chapelle !     What  could  she  do  there  ?  " 

"It  is  a  Spa  in  great  request;  crowded  during  the  summer 
season  with  visitors  from  all  countries.  She  might  have  gone 
there  for  health  or  for  pleasure." 

"  Do  you  think  that  one  could  learn  more  at  the  Spa  itself 
if  one  went  there?" 

"Possibly.     But  it  is  so  long, —  twenty  years  ago." 

"She  might  have  revisited  the  place." 


THE  PARISIANS.  267 

"Certainly;  but  I  know  no  more." 

"Was  she  there  under  the  same  name, —  Duval?" 

"I  am  sure  of  that." 

"Do  you  think  she  left  it  alone  or  with  others?  You  tell 
me  she  was  awfully  belle  ;  she  might  have  attracted  admirers." 

"If,"  answered  Lebeau,  reluctantly,  "I  could  believe  the 
report  of  my  informant,  Louise  Duval  left  Aix  not  alone,  but 
with  some  gallant;  not  an  Englishman.  They  are  said  to 
have  parted  soon,  and  the  man  is  now  dead.  But,  speaking 
frankly,  I  do  not  think  Mademoiselle  Duval  would  have  thus 
compromised  her  honour  and  sacrificed  her  future.  I  believe 
she  would  have  scorned  all  proposals  that  were  not  those  of 
marriage.  But  all  I  can  say  for  certainty  is  that  nothing  is 
known  to  me  of  her  fate  since  she  quitted  Aix-la-Chapelle." 

" In  1849?     She  had  then  a  child  living." 

"A  child?  I  never  heard  that  she  had  any  child;  and  I  do 
not  believe  she  could  have  had  any  child  in  1849." 

Graham  mused.  Somewhat  less  than  five  years  after  1849 
Louise  Duval  had  been  seen  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  Possibly 
she  found  some  attraction  at  that  place,  and  might  yet  be 
discovered  there.  "Monsieur  Lebeau,"  said  Graham,  "you 
know  this  lady  by  sight;  you  would  recognize  her  in  spite  of 
the  lapse  of  years.  Will  you  go  to  Aix  and  find  out  there 
what  you  can?  Of  course,  expenses  will  be  paid,  and  the 
reward  will  be  given  if  you  succeed." 

"I  cannot  oblige  you.  My  interest  in  this  poor  lady  is  not 
very  strong,  though  I  should  be  willing  to  serve  her,  and  glad 
to  know  that  she  were  alive.  I  have  now  business  on  hand 
which  interests  me  much  more,  and  which  will  take  me  from 
Paris,  but  not  in  the  direction  of  Aix." 

"If  I  wrote  to  my  employer,  and  got  him  to  raise  the  re- 
ward to  some  higher  amount,  that  might  make  it  worth  your 
while?" 

"  I  should  still  answer  that  my  affairs  will  not  permit  such 
a  journey.  But  if  there  be  any  chance  of  tracing  Louise 
Duval  at  Aix, —  and  there  may  be, —  you  would  succeed  quite 
as  well  as  I  should.  You  must  judge  for  yourself  if  it  be 
worth  your  trouble  to  attempt  such  a  task;  and  if  you  do  at- 


268  THE  PARISIANS. 

tempt  it,  and  do  succeed,  pray  let  me  know.  A  line  to  my 
office  will  reach  me  for  some  little  time,  even  if  I  am  absent 
from  Paris.  Adieu,  Monsieur  Lamb." 

Here  M.  Lebeau  rose  and  departed. 

Graham  relapsed  into  thought ;  but  a  train  of  thought  much 
more  active,  much  more  concentred  than  before.  "No,"  thus 
ran  his  meditations, —  "no,  it  would  not  be  safe  to  employ 
that  man  further.  The  reasons  that  forbid  me  to  offer  any 
very  high  reward  for  the  discovery  of  this  woman  operate 
still  more  strongly  against  tendering  to  her  own  relation  a 
sum  that  might  indeed  secure  his  aid,  but  would  unquestion- 
ably arouse  his  suspicions,  and  perhaps  drag  into  light  all 
that  must  be  concealed.  Oh,  this  cruel  mission!  I  am,  in- 
deed, an  impostor  to  myself  till  it  be  fulfilled.  I  will  go  to 
Aix,  and  take  Eenard  with  me.  I  am  impatient  till  I  set  out, 
but  I  cannot  quit  Paris  without  once  more  seeing  Isaura. 
She  consents  to  relinquish  the  stage;  surely  I  could  wean  her 
too  from  intimate  friendship  with  a  woman  whose  genius  has 
so  fatal  an  effect  upon  enthusiastic  minds.  And  then  —  and 
then?  " 

He  fell  into  a  delightful  revery;  and  contemplating  Isaura 
as  his  future  wife,  he  surrounded  her  sweet  image  with  all 
those  attributes  of  dignity  and  respect  with  which  an  English- 
man is  accustomed  to  invest  the  destined  bearer  of  his  name, 
the  gentle  sovereign  of  his  household,  the  sacred  mother  of 
his  children.  In  this  picture  the  more  brilliant  qualities  of 
Isaura  found,  perhaps,  but  faint  presentation.  Her  glow  of 
sentiment,  her  play  of  fancy,  her  artistic  yearnings  for  truths 
remote,  for  the  invisible  fairyland  of  beautiful  romance,  re- 
ceded into  the  background  of  the  picture.  It  was  all  these, 
no  doubt,  that  had  so  strengthened  and  enriched  the  love  at 
first  sight,  which  had  shaken  the  equilibrium  of  his  positive 
existence ;  and  yet  he  now  viewed  all  these  as  subordinate  to 
the  one  image  of  mild  decorous  matronage  into  which  wedlock 
was  to  transform  the  child  of  genius,  longing  for  angel  wings 
and  unlimited  space. 


THE  PARISIANS.  269 


CHAPTER  V. 

ON  quitting  the  sorry  apartment  of  the  false  M.  Lamb, 
Lebeau  walked  on  with  slow  steps  and  bended  head,  like  a 
man  absorbed  in  thought.  He  threaded  a  labyrinth  of  ob- 
scure streets,  no  longer  in  the  Faubourg  Montmartre,  and 
dived  at  last  into  one  of  the  few  courts  which  preserve  the 
cachet  of  the  moyen  age  untouched  by  the  ruthless  spirit  of 
improvement  which  during  the  second  empire  has  so  altered 
the  face  of  Paris.  At  the  bottom  of  the  court  stood  a  large 
house,  much  dilapidated,  but  bearing  the  trace  of  former 
grandeur  in  pilasters  and  fretwork  in  the  style  of  the  Renais- 
sance, and  a  defaced  coat  of  arms,  surmounted  with  a  ducal 
coronet,  over  the  doorway.  The  house  had  the  aspect  of  de- 
sertion: many  of  the  windows  were  broken;  others  were  jeal- 
ously closed  with  mouldering  shutters.  The  door  stood  ajar; 
Lebeau  pushed  it  open,  and  the  action  set  in  movement  a  bell 
within  a  porter's  lodge.  The  house,  then,  was  not  uninhab- 
ited; it  retained  the  dignity  of  a  concierge.  A  man  with  a 
large  grizzled  beard  cut  square,  and  holding  a  journal  in  his 
hand,  emerged  from  the  lodge,  and  moved  his  cap  with  a 
certain  bluff  and  surly  reverence  on  recognizing  Lebeau. 

"What!  so  early,  citizen?  " 

"Is  it  too  early?"  said  Lebeau,  glancing  at  his  watch. 
"So  it  is;  I  was  not  aware  of  the  time.  But  I  am  tired  with 
waiting;  let  me  into  the  salon.  I  will  wait  for  the  rest;  I 
shall  not  be  sorry  for  a  little  repose." 

"Bon,"  said  the  porter,  sententiously;  "while  man  reposes 
'men  advance." 

"A  profound  truth,  citizen  Le  Roux;  though  if  they  ad- 
vance on  a  reposing  foe,  they  have  blundering  leaders  unless 
they  march  through  unguarded  by-paths  and  with  noiseless 
tread." 


270  THE  PARISIANS. 

Following  the  porter  up  a  dingy  broad  staircase,  Lebeau 
was  admitted  into  a  large  room,  void  of  all  other  furniture 
than  a  table,  two  benches  at  its  sides,  and  a  fauteuil  at  its 
head.  On  the  mantelpiece  there  was  a  huge  clock,  and  some 
iron  sconces  were  fixed  on  the  panelled  walls. 

Lebeau  flung  himself,  with  a  wearied  air,  into  the  fauteuil. 
The  porter  looked  at  him  with  a  kindly  expression.  He  had 
a  liking  to  Lebeau,  whom  he  had  served  in  his  proper  profes- 
sion of  messenger  or  commissionnaire  before  being  placed  by 
that  courteous  employer  in  the  easy  post  he  now  held. 
Lebeau,  indeed,  had  the  art,  when  he  pleased,  of  charming 
inferiors;  his  knowledge  of  mankind  allowed  him  to  distin- 
guish peculiarities  in  each  individual,  and  flatter  the  amour 
propre  by  deference  to  such  eccentricities.  Marc  le  Roux,  the 
roughest  of  "red  caps,"  had  a  wife  of  whom  he  was  very 
proud.  He  would  have  called  the  empress  Citoyenne  Eugenie, 
but  he  always  spoke  of  his  wife  as  Madame.  Lebeau  won  his 
heart  by  always  asking  after  Madame. 

"You  look  tired,  citizen,"  said  the  porter;  "let  me  bring 
you  a  glass  of  wine." 

"  Thank  you,  man  ami,  no.  Perhaps  later,  if  I  have  time, 
after  we  break  up  to  pay  my  respects  to  Madame." 

The  porter  smiled,  bowed,  and  retired  muttering,  "Nom 
d'un  petit  bonhomme;  il  n'y  a  rien  de  tel  que  les  belles 
manieres." 

Left  alone,  Lebeau  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  table,  resting 
his  chin  on  his  hand,  and  gazing  into  the  dim  space,  —  for  it 
was  now,  indeed,  night,  and  little  light  came  through  the 
grimy  panes  of  the  one  window  left  unclosed  by  shutters.  He 
was  musing  deeply.  This  man  was,  in  much,  an  enigma  to 
himself.  Was  he  seeking  to  unriddle  it?  A  strange  com- 
pound of  contradictory  elements.  In  his  stormy  youth  there 
had  been  lightning-like  flashes  of  good  instincts,  of  irregular 
honour,  of  inconsistent  generosity,  —  a  puissant  wild  nature, 
with  strong  passions  of  love  and  of  hate,  without  fear,  but 
not  without  shame.  In  other  forms  of  society  that  love  of 
applause  which  had  made  him  seek  and  exult  in  the  notoriety 
which  he  mistook  for  fame  might  have  settled  down  into 


THE  PARISIANS.  271 

some  solid  and  useful  ambition.  He  might  have  become  great 
in  the  world's  eye,  for  at  the  service  of  his  desires  there  were 
no  ordinary  talents.  Though  too  true  a  Parisian  to  be  a 
severe  student,  still,  on  the  whole,  he  had  acquired  much  gen- 
eral information,  partly  from  books,  partly  from  varied  com- 
merce with  mankind.  He  had  the  gift,  both  by  tongue  and 
by  pen,  of  expressing  himself  with  force  and  warmth;  time 
and  necessity  had  improved  that  gift.  Coveting,  during  his 
brief  career  of  fashion,  the  distinctions  which  necessitate 
lavish  expenditure,  he  had  been  the  most  reckless  of  spend- 
thrifts; but  the  neediness  which  follows  waste  had  never  de- 
stroyed his  original  sense  of  personal  honour.  Certainly 
Victor  de  Mauleon  was  not,  at  the  date  of  his  fall,  a  man  to 
whom  the  thought  of  accepting,  much  less  of  stealing,  the 
jewels  of  a  woman  who  loved  him  could  have  occurred  as  a 
possible  question  of  casuistry  between  honour  and  temptation. 
Nor  could  that  sort  of  question  have,  throughout  the  sternest 
trials  or  the  humblest  callings  to  which  his  after-life  had 
been  subjected,  forced  admission  into  his  brain.  He  was  one 
of  those  men,  perhaps  the  most  terrible  though  unconscious 
criminals,  who  are  the  offsprings  produced  by  intellectual 
power  and  egotistical  ambition.  If  you  had  offered  to  Victor 
de  Mauleon  the  crown  of  the  Csesars,  on  condition  of  his  doing 
one  of  those  base  things  which  "a  gentleman"  cannot  do, — 
pick  a  pocket,  cheat  at  cards, —  Victor  de  Mauleon  would  have 
refused  the  crown.  He  would  not  have  refused  on  account  of 
any  laws  of  morality  affecting  the  foundations  of  the  social 
system,  but  from  the  pride  of  his  own  personality.  "  I,  Victor 
de  Mauleon!  I  pick  a  pocket!  I  cheat  at  cards!  I!  "  But 
when  something  incalculably  worse  for  the  interests  of  society 
than  picking  a  pocket  or  cheating  at  cards  was  concerned; 
when  for  the  sake  either  of  private  ambition  or  political  ex- 
periment hitherto  untested,  and  therefore  very  doubtful,  the 
peace  and  order  and  happiness  of  millions  might  be  exposed 
to  the  release  of  the  most  savage  passions,  rushing  on  revolu- 
tionary madness  or  civil  massacre,  then  this  French  dare-devil 
would  have  been  just  as  unscrupulous  as  any  English  philoso- 
pher whom  a  metropolitan  borough  might  elect  as  its  repre- 


272  THE  PARISIANS. 

sentative.  The  system  of  the  empire  was  in  the  way  of 
Victor  de  Mauleon, —  in  the  way  of  his  private  ambition,  in 
the  way  of  his  political  dogmas ;  and  therefore  it  must  be  de- 
stroyed, no  matter  what  nor  whom  it  crushed  beneath  its 
ruins.  He  was  one  of  those  plotters  of  revolutions  not  un- 
common in  democracies,  ancient  and  modern,  who  invoke 
popular  agencies  with  the  less  scruple  because  they  have  a  su- 
preme contempt  for  the  populace.  A  man  with  mental  pow- 
ers equal  to  De  Mauleon's,  and  who  sincerely  loves  the  people 
and  respects  the  grandeur  of  aspiration  with  which,  in  the 
great  upheaving  of  their  masses,  they  so  often  contrast  the 
irrational  credulities  of  their  ignorance  and  the  blind  fury  of 
their  wrath,  is  always  exceedingly  loath  to  pass  the  terrible 
gulf  that  divides  reform  from  revolution.  He  knows  how 
rarely  it  happens  that  genuine  liberty  is  not  disarmed  in  the 
passage,  and  what  sufferings  must  be  undergone  by  those  who 
live  by  their  labour  during  the  dismal  intervals  between  the 
sudden  destruction  of  one  form  of  society  and  the  gradual 
settlement  of  another.  Such  a  man,  however,  has  no  type  in 
a  Victor  de  Mauleon.  The  circumstances  of  his  life  had 
placed  this  strong  nature  at  war  with  society,  and  corrupted 
into  misanthropy  affections  that  had  once  been  ardent.  That 
misanthropy  made  his  ambition  more  intense,  because  it 
increased  his  scorn  for  the  human  instruments  it  employed. 

Victor  de  Mauleon  knew  that  however  innocent  of  the  charges 
that  had  so  long  darkened  his  name,  and  however  —  thanks  to 
his  rank,  his  manners,  his  savoir  vivre,  the  aid  of  Louvier's 
countenance  and  the  support  of  his  own  high-born  connections 
—  he  might  restore  himself  to  his  rightful  grade  in  private  life, 
the  higher  prizes  in  public  life  would  scarcely  be  within  reach, 
to  a  man  of  his  antecedents  and  stinted  means,  in  the  existent 
form  and  conditions  of  established  political  order.  Perforce, 
the  aristocrat  must  make  himself  democrat  if  he  would  become 
a  political  chief.  Could  he  assist  in  turning  upside  down  the 
actual  state  of  things,  he  trusted  to  his  individual  force  of 
character  to  find  himself  among  the  uppermost  in  the  general 
bouleversement.  And  in  the  first  stage  of  popular  revolution 
the  mob  has  no  greater  darling  than  the  noble  who  deserts  his 


THE  PARISIANS.  273 

order,  though  in  the  second  stage  it  may  guillotine  him  at  the 
denunciation  of  his  cobbler.  A  mind  so  sanguine  and  so  au- 
dacious as  that  of  Victor  de  Mauleon  never  thinks  of  the 
second  step  if  it  sees  a  way  to  the  first. 


CHAPTER  VT. 

THE  room  was  in  complete  darkness,  save  where  a  ray  from 
a  gas-lamp  at  the  mouth  of  the  court  came  aslant  through  the 
window,  when  citizen  Le  Eoux  re-entered,  closed  the  window, 
lighted  two  of  the  sconces,  and  drew  forth  from  a  drawer  in 
the  table  implements  of  writing,  which  he  placed  thereon 
noiselessly,  as  if  he  feared  to  disturb  M.  Lebeau,  whose 
head,  buried  in  his  hands,  rested  on  the  table.  He  seemed 
in  a  profound  sleep.  At  last  the  porter  gently  touched  the 
arm  of  the  slumberer,  and  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  It  is  on  the 
stroke  of  ten,  citizen;  they  will  be  here  in  a  minute  or  so." 
Lebeau  lifted  his  head  drowsily. 

"Eh,  "said  he  — "what?" 

"You  have  been  asleep." 

"I  suppose  so,  for  I  have  been  dreaming.  Ha!  I  hear 
the  door-bell.  I  am  wide  awake  now." 

The  porter  left  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes  conducted  into 
the  salon  two  men  wrapped  in  cloaks,  despite  the  warmth  of 
the  summer  night.  Lebeau  shook  hands  with  them  silently, 
and  not  less  silently  they  laid  aside  their  cloaks  and  seated 
themselves.  Both  these  men  appeared  to  belong  to  the  upper 
section  of  the  middle  class.  One,  strongly  built,  with  a  keen 
expression  of  countenance,  was  a  surgeon  considered  able  in 
his  profession,  but  with  limited  practice,  owing  to  a  current 
suspicion  against  his  honour  in  connection  with  a  forged  will. 
The  other,  tall,  meagre,  with  long  grizzled  hair  and  a  wild 
unsettled  look  about  the  eyes,  was  a  man  of  science;  had 
written  works  well  esteemed  upon  mathematics  and  electri- 

VOL.  I.  — 18 


274  THE  PARISIANS. 

city,  also  against  the  existence  of  any  other  creative  power 
than  that  which  he  called  "nebulosity,"  and  denned  to  be  the 
combination  of  heat  and  moisture.  The  surgeon  was  about 
the  age  of  forty,  the  atheist  a  few  years  older.  In  another 
minute  or  so,  a  knock  was  heard  against  the  wall.  One  of 
the  men  rose  and  touched  a  spring  in  the  panel,  which  then 
flew  back,  and  showed  an  opening  upon  a  narrow  stair,  by 
which,  one  after  the  other,  entered  three  other  members  of 
the  society.  Evidently  there  was  more  than  one  mode  of 
ingress  and  exit. 

The  three  new-comers  were  not  Frenchmen, —  one  might 
see  that  at  a  glance ;  probably  they  had  reasons  for  greater 
precaution  than  those  who  entered  by  the  front  door.  One,  a 
tall,  powerfully-built  man,  with  fair  hair  and  beard,  dressed 
with  a  certain  pretension  to  elegance, —  faded  threadbare  ele- 
gance,—  exhibiting  no  appearance  of  linen,  was  a  Pole.  One, 
a  slight  bald  man,  very  dark  and  sallow,  was  an  Italian.  The 
third,  who  seemed  like  an  ouvrier  in  his  holiday  clothes,  was 
a  Belgian. 

Lebeau  greeted  them  all  with  an  equal  courtesy,  and  each 
with  an  equal  silence  took  his  seat  at  the  table. 

Lebeau  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Confreres,"  he  said,  "our 
number  as  fixed  for  this  seance  still  needs  two  to  be  complete, 
and  doubtless  they  will  arrive  in  a  few  minutes.  Till  they 
come,  we  can  but  talk  upon  trifles.  Permit  me  to  offer  you 
my  cigar-case."  And  so  saying,  he  who  professed  to  be  no 
smoker  handed  his  next  neighbour,  who  was  the  Pole,  a  large 
cigar-case  amply  furnished;  and  the  Pole,  helping  himself  to 
two  cigars,  handed  the  case  to  the  man  next  him, —  two  only 
declining  the  luxury,  the  Italian  and  the  Belgian.  But  the 
Pole  was  the  only  man  who  took  two  cigars. 

Steps  were  now  heard  on  the  stairs,  the  door  opened,  and 
citizen  Le  Roux  ushered  in,  one  after  the  other,  two  men,  this 
time  unmistakably  French,  —  to  an  experienced  eye  unmis- 
takably Parisians:  the  one,  a  young  beardless  man,  who 
seemed  almost  boyish,  with  a  beautiful  face,  and  a  stinted, 
meagre  frame;  the  other,  a  stalwart  man  of  about  eight-and- 
twenty,  dressed  partly  as  an  ouvrier,  not  in  his  Sunday 


THE  PARISIANS.  275 

clothes,  rather  affecting  the  blouse, — not  that  he  wore  that 
antique  garment,  but  that  he  was  in  rough  costume  unbrushed 
and  stained,  with  thick  shoes  and  coarse  stockings,  and  a 
workman's  cap.  But  of  all  who  gathered  round  the  table 
at  which  M.  Lebeau  presided,  he  had  the  most  distinguished 
exterior, —  a  virile  honest  exterior,  a  massive  open  forehead, 
intelligent  eyes,  a  handsome  clear-cut  incisive  profile,  and 
solid  jaw.  The  expression  of  the  face  was  stern,  but  not 
mean, —  an  expression  which  might  have  become  an  ancient 
baron  as  well  as  a  modern  workman;  in  it  plenty  of  haughti- 
ness and  of  will,  and  still  more  of  self-esteem. 

"Confreres,"  said  Lebeau,  rising,  and  every  eye  turned  to 
him,  "our  number  for  the  present  seance  is  complete.  To 
business.  Since  we  last  met,  our  cause  has  advanced  with 
rapid  and  not  with  noiseless  stride.  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
Louis  Bonaparte  has  virtually  abnegated  Les  idees  Napo- 
leoniennes, — a  fatal  mistake  for  him,  a  glorious  advance  for 
us.  The  liberty  of  the  press  must  very  shortly  be  achieved, 
and  with  it  personal  government  must  end.  When  the  auto- 
crat once  is  compelled  to  go  by  the  advice  of  his  ministers, 
look  for  sudden  changes.  His  ministers  will  be  but  weather- 
cocks, turned  hither  and  thither  according  as  the  wind  chops 
at  Paris;  and  Paris  is  the  temple  of  the  winds.  The  new 
revolution  is  almost  at  hand.  [Murmurs  of  applause.]  It 
would  move  the  laughter  of  the  Tuileries  and  its  ministers, 
of  the  Bourse  and  of  its  gamblers,  of  every  dainty  salon  of  this 
silken  city  of  would-be  philosophers  and  wits,  if  they  were 
told  that  here  within  this  mouldering  baraque,  eight  men,  so 
little  blessed  by  fortune,  so  little  known  to  fame  as  ourselves, 
met  to  concert  the  fall  of  an  empire.  The  Government  would 
not  deem  us  important  enough  to  notice  our  existence." 

"I  know  not  that,"  interrupted  the  Pole. 

"Ah,  pardon,"  resumed,  the  orator;  "I  should  have  confined 
my  remark  to  the  five  of  us  who  are  French.  I  did  injustice 
to  the  illustrious  antecedents  of  our  foreign  allies.  I  know 
that  you,  Thaddeus  Loubisky,  that  you,  Leonardo  Raselli, 
have  been  too  eminent  for  hands  hostile  to  tyrants  not  to  be 
marked  with  a  black  cross  in  the  books  of  the  police ;  I  know 


276  THE  PARISIANS. 

that  you,  Jan  Vanderstegen,  if  hitherto  unscarred  by  those 
wounds  in  defence  of  freedom  which  despots  and  cowards 
would  fain  miscall  the  brands  of  the  felon,  still  owe  it  to  your 
special  fraternity  to  keep  your  movements  rigidly  concealed. 
The  tyrant  would  suppress  the  International  Society,  and 
forbids  it  the  liberty  of  congress.  To  you  three  is  granted 
the  secret  entrance  to  our  council-hall.  But  we  Frenchmen 
are  as  yet  safe  in  our  supposed  insignificance.  Confreres, 
permit  me  to  impress  on  you  the  causes  why,  insignificant 
as  we  seem,  we  are  really  formidable.  In  the  first  place,  we 
are  few:  the  great  mistake  in  most  secret  associations  has 
been  to  admit  many  councillors ;  and  disunion  enters  where- 
ever  many  tongues  can  wrangle.  In  the  next  place,  though 
so  few  in  council,  we  are  legion  when  the  time  comes  for  ac- 
tion; because  we  are  representative  men,  each  of  his  own  sec- 
tion, and  each  section  is  capable  of  an  indefinite  expansion. 

"You,  valiant  Pole,  you,  politic  Italian,  enjoy  the  confi- 
dence of  thousands  now  latent  in  unwatched  homes  and  harm- 
less callings,  but  who,  when  you  lift  a  finger,  will,  like  the 
buried  dragon's  teeth,  spring  up  into  armed  men.  You,  Jan 
Vanderstegen,  the  trusted  delegate  from  Verviers,  that  swarm- 
ing camp  of  wronged  labour  in  its  revolt  from  the  iniquities 
of  capital,  —  you,  when  the  hour  arrives,  can  touch  the  wire 
that  flashes  the  telegram  'Arise'  through  all  the  lands  in 
which  workmen  combine  against  their  oppressors. 

"Of  us  five  Frenchmen,  let  me  speak  more  modestly.  You, 
sage  and  scholar,  Felix  Kuvigny,  honoured  alike  for  the  pro- 
fundity of  your  science  and  the  probity  of  your  manners,  in- 
duced to  join  us  by  your  abhorrence  of  priestcraft  and 
superstition,  —  you  made  a  wide  connection  among  all  the  en- 
lightened reasoners  who  would  emancipate  the  mind  of  man 
from  the  trammels  of  Church-born  fable,  and  when  the  hour 
arrives  in  which  it  is  safe  to  say,  'Delenda  est  Eoma,'  you 
know  where  to  find  the  pens  that  are  more  victorious  than 
swords  against  a  Church  and  a  Creed.  You  "  (turning  to  the 
surgeon)  —  "you,  Gaspard  le  Noy,  whom  a  vile  calumny  has 
robbed  of  the  throne  in  your  profession  so  justly  due  to  your 
skill,  you,  nobly  scorning  the  rich  and  great,  have  devoted 


THE  PARISIANS.  277 

yourself  to  tend  and  heal  the  humble  and  the  penniless,  so 
that  you  have  won  the  popular  title  of  the  'Medecin  des 
Pauvres, '  when  the  time  comes  wherein  soldiers  shall  fly  be- 
fore the  sansculottes,  and  the  mob  shall  begin  the  work  which 
they  who  move  mobs  will  complete,  the  clients  of  Gaspard  le 
Noy  will  be  the  avengers  of  his  wrongs. 

"You,  Armand  Monnier,  simple  ouvrier,  but  of  illustrious 
parentage,  for  your  grandsire  was  the  beloved  friend  of  the 
virtuous  Eobespierre,  your  father  perished  a  hero  and  a  mar- 
tyr in  the  massacre  of  the  coup  d'etat ;  you,  cultured  in  the 
eloquence  of  Robespierre  himself,  and  in  the  persuasive  phi- 
losophy of  Kobespierre's  teacher,  E-ousseau ;  you,  the  idolized 
orator  of  the  Red  Republicans, —  you  will  be  indeed  a  chief 
of  dauntless  bands  when  the  trumpet  sounds  for  battle. 
Young  publicist  and  poet,  Gustave  Rameau, —  I  care  not 
which  you  are  at  present,  I  know  what  you  will  be  soon, — 
you  need  nothing  for  the  development  of  your  powers  over 
the  many  but  an  organ  for  their  manifestation.  Of  that 
anon.  I  now  descend  into  the  bathos  of  egotism.  I  am 
compelled  lastly  to  speak  of  myself.  It  was  at  Marseilles 
and  Lyons,  as  you  already  know,  that  I  first  conceived  the 
plan  of  this  representative  association.  For  years  before  I 
had  been  in  familiar  intercourse  with  the  friends  of  freedom, 
—  that  is,  with  the  foes  of  the  Empire.  They  are  not  all 
poor;  some  few  are  rich  and  generous.  I  do  not  say  these 
rich  and  few  concur  in  the  ultimate  objects  of  the  poor  and 
many;  but  they  concur  in  the  first  object,  the  demolition  of 
that  which  exists, — the  Empire.  In  the  course  of  my  special 
calling  of  negotiator  or  agent  in  the  towns  of  the  Midi,  I 
formed  friendships  with  some  of  these  prosperous  malcon- 
tents ;  and  out  of  these  friendships  I  conceived  the  idea  which 
is  embodied  in  this  council. 

"  According  to  that  conception,  while  the  council  may  com- 
municate as  it  will  with  all  societies,  secret  or  open,  having 
revolution  for  their  object,  the  council  refuses  to  merge  itself 
in  any  other  confederation;  it  stands  aloof  and  independent; 
it  declines  to  admit  into  its  code  any  special  articles  of  faith 
in  a  future  beyond  the  bounds  to  which  it  limits  its  design 


278  THE  PARISIANS. 

and  its  force.  That  design  unites  us ;  to  go  beyond  would  di- 
vide. We  all  agree  to  destroy  the  Napoleonic  dynasty;  none 
of  us  might  agree  as  to  what  we  should  place  in  its  stead. 
All  of  us  here  present  might  say,  'A  republic.'  Ay,  but  of 
what  kind?  Vanderstegen  would  have  it  socialistic;  Monnier 
goes  further,  and  would  have  it  communistic,  on  the  princi- 
ples of  Fourier;  Le  Noy  adheres  to  the  policy  of  Danton, 
and  would  commence  the  republic  by  a  reign  of  terror;  our 
Italian  ally  abhors  the  notion  of  general  massacre,  and  advo- 
cates individual  assassination.  Kuvigny  would  annihilate 
the  worship  of  a  Deity;  Monnier  holds  with  Voltaire  and 
Kobespierre,  that,  'if  there  were  no  Deity,  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  man  to  create  one.'  Bref,  we  could  not  agree  upon 
any  plan  for  the  new  edifice,  and  therefore  we  refuse  to  dis- 
cuss one  till  the  ploughshare  has  gone  over  the  ruins  of  the 
old.  But  I  have  another  and  more  practical  reason  for  keep- 
ing our  council  distinct  from  all  societies  with  professed  ob- 
jects beyond  that  of  demolition.  We  need  a  certain  command 
of  money.  It  is  I  who  bring  to  you  that,  and  —  how?  Not 
from  my  own  resources, —  they  but  suffice  to  support  myself; 
not  by  contributions  from  ouvriers,  who,  as  you  well  know, 
will  subscribe  only  for  their  own  ends  in  the  victory  of  work- 
men over  masters.  I  bring  money  to  you  from  the  coffers  of 
the  rich  malcontents.  Their  politics  are  not  those  of  most 
present;  their  politics  are  what  they  term  moderate.  Some 
are  indeed  for  a  republic,  but  for  a  republic  strong  in  defence 
of  order,  in  support  of  property ;  others  —  and  they  are  more 
numerous  and  the  more  rich  —  for  a  constitutional  monarchy, 
and,  if  possible,  for  the  abridgment  of  universal  suffrage, 
which  in  their  eyes  tends  only  to  anarchy  in  the  towns  and 
arbitrary  rule  under  priestly  influence  in  the  rural  districts. 
They  would  not  subscribe  a  sou  if  they  thought  it  went  to 
further  the  designs  whether  of  Euvigny  the  atheist,  or  of 
Monnier,  who  would  enlist  the  Deity  of  Rousseau  on  the  side 
of  the  drapeau  rouge  ;  not  a  sou  if  they  knew  I  had  the  hon- 
our to  boast  such  confreres  as  I  see  around  me.  They  sub- 
scribe, as  we  concert,  for  the  fall  of  Bonaparte.  The  policy 
I  adopt  I  borrow  from  the  policy  of  the  English  Liberals.  In 


THE  PARISIANS.  279 

England,  potent  mlllionnaires,  high-born  dukes,  devoted 
Churchmen,  belonging  to  the  Liberal  party,  accept  the  ser- 
vices of  men  who  look  forward  to  measures  which  would  ruin 
capital,  eradicate  aristocracy,  and  destroy  the  Church,  pro- 
vided these  men  combine  with  them  in  some  immediate  step 
onward  against  the  Tories.  They  have  a  proverb  which  I  thus 
adapt  to  French  localities:  if  a  train  passes  Fontainebleau 
on  its  way  to  Marseilles,  why  should  I  not  take  it  to  Fontaine  - 
bleau  because  other  passengers  are  going  on  to  Marseilles? 

"  Confreres,  it  seems  to  me  the  moment  has  come  when  we 
may  venture  some  of  the  fund  placed  at  my  disposal  to  other 
purposes  than  those  to  which  it  has  been  hitherto  devoted.  I 
propose,  therefore,  to  set  up  a  journal  under  the  auspices  of 
Gustave  Kameau  as  editor-in-chief, — a  journal  which,  if  he 
listen  to  my  advice,  will  create  no  small  sensation.  It  will 
begin  with  a  tone  of  impartiality;  it  will  refrain  from  all 
violence  of  invective ;  it  will  have  wit,  it  will  have  sentiment, 
and  eloquence ;  it  will  win  its  way  into  the  salons  and  caf&s 
of  educated  men;  and  then,  and  then,  when  it  does  change 
from  polished  satire  into  fierce  denunciation  and  sides  with 
the  blouses,  its  effect  will  be  startling  and  terrific.  Of  this  I 
will  say  more  to  citizen  Kameau  in  private.  To  you  I  need 
not  enlarge  upon  the  fact  that,  at  Paris,  a  combination  of 
men,  though  immeasurably  superior  to  us  in  status  or  influ- 
ence, without  a  journal  at  command  is  nowhere ;  with  such  a 
journal,  written  not  to  alarm  but  to  seduce  fluctuating  opin- 
ions, a  combination  of  men  immeasurably  inferior  to  us  may 
be  anywhere. 

"  Confreres,  this  affair  settled,  I  proceed  to  distribute 
amongst  you  sums  of  which  each  who  receives  will  render  me 
an  account,  except  our  valued  confrere  the  Pole.  All  that  we 
can  subscribe  to  the  cause  of  humanity  a  representative  of 
Poland  requires  for  himself."  (A  suppressed  laugh  among 
all  but  the  Pole,  who  looked  round  with  a  grave,  imposing 
air,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  What  is  there  to  laugh  at?  —  a  simple 
truth.") 

M.  Lebeau  then  presented  to  each  of  his  confreres  a  sealed 
envelope,  containing  no  doubt  a  bank-note,  and  perhaps  also 


280  THE  PARISIANS. 

private  instructions  as  to  its  disposal.  It  was  one  of  his 
rules  to  make  the  amount  of  any  sum  granted  to  an  individ- 
ual member  of  the  society  from  the  ,fund  at  his  disposal  a 
confidential  secret  between  himself  and  the  recipient.  Thus 
jealousy  was  avoided  if  the  sums  were  unequal;  and  unequal 
they  generally  were.  In  the  present  instance  the  two  largest 
sums  were  given  to  the  "Medecin  des  Pauvres"  and  to  the 
delegate  from  Verviers.  Both  were  no  doubt  to  be  distrib- 
uted among  "the  poor,"  at  the  discretion  of  the  trustee 
appointed. 

Whatever  rules  with  regard  to  the  distribution  of  money 
M.  Lebeau  laid  down  were  acquiesced  in  without  demur,  for 
the  money  was  found  exclusively  by  himself,  and  furnished 
without  the  pale  of  the  Secret  Council,  of  which  he  had  made 
himself  founder  and  dictator.  Some  other  business  was  then 
discussed,  sealed  reports  from  each  member  were  handed  to 
the  president,  who  placed  them  unopened  in  his  pocket,  and 
resumed, — 

"  Confreres,  our  stance  is  now  concluded.  The  period  for 
our  next  meeting  must  remain  indefinite,  for  I  myself  shall 
leave  Paris  as  soon  as  I  have  set  on  foot  the  journal,  on  the 
details  of  which  I  will  confer  with  citizen  Kameau.  I  am 
not  satisfied  with  the  progress  made  by  the  two  travelling 
missionaries  who  complete  our  Council  of  Ten;  and  though  I 
do  not  question  their  zeal,  I  think  my  experience  may  guide 
it  if  I  take  a  journey  to  the  towns  of  Bordeaux  and  Marseilles, 
where  they  now  are.  But  should  circumstances  demanding 
concert  or  action  arise,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  will  either 
summon  a  meeting  or  transmit  instructions  to  such  of  our 
members  as  may  be  most  usefully  employed.  For  the  pres- 
ent, confreres,  you  are  relieved.  Eemain  only  you,  dear 
young  author." 


THE  PARISIANS.  281 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LEFT  alone  with  Gustave  Rameau,  the  President  of  the  Se- 
cret Council  remained  silently  musing  for  some  moments ;  but 
his  countenance  was  no  longer  moody  and  overcast,  —  his  nos- 
trils were  dilated,  as  in  triumph;  there  was  a  half -smile  of 
pride  on  his  lips.  Rameau  watched  him  curiously  and  admir- 
ingly. The  young  man  had  the  impressionable,  excitable 
temperament  common  to  Parisian  genius, —  especially  when 
it  nourishes  itself  on  absinthe.  He  enjoyed  the  romance  of 
belonging  to  a  secret  society ;  he  was  acute  enough  to  recog- 
nize the  sagacity  by  which  this  small  conclave  was  kept  out 
of  those  crazed  combinations  for  impracticable  theories  more 
likely  to  lead  adventurers  to  the  Tarpeian  Rock  than  to  the 
Capitol,  while  yet  those  crazed  combinations  might,  in  some 
critical  moment,  become  strong  instruments  in  the  hands  of 
practical  ambition.  Lebeau  fascinated  him,  and  took  colossal 
proportions  in  his  intoxicated  vision, —  vision  indeed  intoxi- 
cated at  this  moment,  for  before  it  floated  the  realized  image 
of  his  aspirations, — a  journal  of  which  he  was  to  be  the  edi- 
tor-in-chief; in  which  his  poetry,  his  prose,  should  occupy 
space  as  large  as  he  pleased ;  through  which  his  name,  hitherto 
scarce  known  beyond  a  literary  clique,  would  resound  in  salon 
and  club  and  cafe,  and  become  a  familiar  music  on  the  lips  of 
fashion.  And  he  owed  this  to  the  man  seated  there, —  a 
prodigious  man. 

"  Cher  poete,"  said  Lebeau,  breaking  silence,  "it  gives  me 
no  mean  pleasure  to  think  I  am  opening  a  career  to  one  whose 
talents  fit  him  for  those  goals  on  which  they  who  reach  write 
names  that  posterity  shall  read.  Struck  with  certain  articles 
of  yours  in  the  journal  made  celebrated  by  the  wit  and  gayety 
of  Savarin,  I  took  pains  privately  to  inquire  into  your  birth, 
your  history,  connections,  antecedents.  All  confirmed  my 
first  impression, —  that  you  were  exactly  the  writer  I  wish  to 


282  THE  PARISIANS. 

secure  to  our  cause.  I  therefore  sought  you  in  your  rooms, 
unintroduced  and  a  stranger,  in  order  to  express  my  admira- 
tion of  your  compositions.  Bref,  we  soon  became  friends; 
and  after  comparing  minds,  I  admitted  you,  at  your  request, 
into  this  Secret  Council.  Now,  in  proposing  to  you  the  con- 
duct of  the  journal  I  would  establish,  for  which  I  am  prepared 
to  find  all  necessary  funds,  I  am  compelled  to  make  impera- 
tive conditions.  Nominally  you  will  be  editor-in-chief :  that 
station,  if  the  journal  succeeds,  will  secure  you  position  and 
fortune;  if  it  fail,  you  fail  with  it.  But  we  will  not  speak  of 
failure;  I  must  have  it  succeed.  Our  interest,  then,  is  the 
same.  Before  that  interest  all  puerile  vanities  fade  away. 
Nominally,  I  say,  you  are  editor-in-chief;  but  all  the  real 
work  of  editing  will,  at  first,  be  done  by  others." 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Rameau,  aghast  and  stunned.  Lebeau 
resumed, — 

"To  establish  the  journal  I  propose  needs  more  than  the 
genius  of  youth ;  it  needs  the  tact  and  experience  of  mature 
years." 

Rameau  sank  back  on  his  chair  with  a  sullen  sneer  on  his 
pale  lips.  Decidedly  Lebeau  was  not  so  great  a  man  as  he 
had  thought. 

"  A  certain  portion  of  the  journal, "  continued  Lebeau,  "  will 
be  exclusively  appropriated  to  your  pen." 

Rameau's  lip  lost  the  sneer. 

"  But  your  pen  must  be  therein  restricted  to  compositions 
of  pure  fancy,  disporting  in  a  world  that  does  not  exist;  or, 
if  on  graver  themes  connected  with  the  beings  of  the  world 
that  does  exist,  the  subjects  will  be  dictated  to  you  and  re- 
vised. Yet  even  in  the  higher  departments  of  a  journal  in- 
tended to  make  way  at  its  first  start,  we  need  the  aid,  not 
indeed  of  men  who  write  better  than  you,  but  of  men  whose 
fame  is  established, —  whose  writings,  good  or  bad,  the  public 
run  to  read,  and  will  find  good  even  if  they  are  bad.  You 
must  consign  one  column  to  the  playful  comments  and  witti- 
cisms of  Savarin." 

"  Savarin?  But  he  has  a  journal  of  his  own.  He  will  not, 
as  an  author,  condescend  to  write  in  one  just  set  up  by  me; 


THE  PARISIANS.  283 

and  as  a  politician,  he  as  certainly  will  not  aid  in  an  ultra- 
democratic  revolution.  If  he  care  for  politics  at  all,  he  is  a 
constitutionalist,  an  Orleanist." 

"  Enfant !  as  an  author  Savarin  will  condescend  to  contrib- 
ute to  your  journal,  first,  because  it  in  no  way  attempts  to 
interfere  with  his  own;  secondly, —  I  can  tell  you  a  secret, — 
Savarin's  journal  no  longer  suffices  for  his  existence.  He 
has  sold  more  than  two-thirds  of  its  property;  he  is  in  debt, 
and  his  creditor  is  urgent;  and  to-morrow  you  will  offer 
Savarin  thirty  thousand  francs  for  one  column  from  his  pen, 
and  signed  by  his  name,  for  two  months  from  the  day  the 
journal  starts.  He  will  accept,  partly  because  the  sum  will 
clear  off  the  debt  that  hampers  him,  partly  because  he  will 
take  care  that  the  amount  becomes  known;  and  that  will  help 
him  to  command  higher  terms  for  the  sale  of  the  remaining 
shares  in  the  journal  he  now  edits,  for  the  new  book  which 
you  told  me  he  intended  to  write,  and  for  the  new  journal 
which  he  will  be  sure  to  set  up  as  soon  as  he  has  disposed  of 
the  old  one.  You  say  that,  as  a  politician,  Savarin,  an  Or- 
leanist, will  not  aid  in  an  ultra-democratic  revolution.  Who 
asks  him  to  do  so?  Did  I  not  imply  at  the  meeting  that  we 
commence  our  journal  with  politics  the  mildest?  Though  rev- 
olutions are  not  made  with  rose-water,  it  is  rose-water  that 
nourishes  their  roots.  The  polite  cynicism  of  authors,  read  by 
those  who  float  on  the  surface  of  society,  prepares  the  way  for 
the  social  ferment  in  its  deeps.  Had  there  been  no  Voltaire, 
there  would  have  been  no  Camille  Desmoulins ;  had  there  been 
no  Diderot,  there  would  have  been  no  Marat.  We  start  as 
polite  cynics.  Of  all  cynics  Savarin  is  the  politest.  But  when 
I  bid  high  for  him,  it  is  his  clique  that  I  bid  for.  Without 
his  clique  he  is  but  a  wit;  with  his  clique,  a  power.  Partly' 
out  of  that  clique,  partly  out  of  a  circle  beyond  it,  which 
Savarin  can  more  or  less  influence,  I  select  ten.  Here  is  the 
list  of  them ;  study  it.  Entre  nous,  I  esteem  their  writings 
as  little  as  I  do  artificial  flies;  but  they  are  the  artificial  flies 
at  which,  in  this  particular  season  of  the  year,  the  public  rise. 
You  must  procure  at  least  five  of  the  ten;  and  I  leave  you 
carte  blanche  as  to  the  terms.  Savarin  gained,  the  best  of 


284  THE  PARISIANS. 

them  will  be  proud  of  being  his  associates.  Observe,  none  of 
these  messieurs  of  brilliant  imagination  are  to  write  political 
articles;  those  will  be  furnished  to  you  anonymously,  and 
inserted  without  erasure  or  omission.  When  you  have  se- 
cured Savarin,  and  five  at  least  of  the  collaborateurs  in  the  list, 
write  to  me  at  my  office.  I  give  you  four  days  to  do  this; 
and  the  day  the  journal  starts  you  enter  into  the  income  of 
fifteen  thousand  francs  a  year,  with  a  rise  in  salary  propor- 
tioned to  profits.  Are  you  contented  with  the  terms?" 

"  Of  course  I  am ;  but  supposing  I  do  not  gain  the  aid  of 
Savarin,  or  five  at  least  of  the  list  you  give,  which  I  see  at  a 
glance  contains  names  the  most  a  la  mode  in  this  kind  of 
writing,  more  than  one  of  them  of  high  social  rank,  whom  it 
is  difficult  for  me  even  to  approach, —  if,  I  say,  I  fail?  " 

"What!  with  a  carte  blanche  of  terms?  fie!  Are  you  a 
Parisian?  Well,  to  answer  you  frankly,  if  you  fail  in  so 
easy  a  task,  you  are  not  the  man  to  edit  our  journal,  and  I 
shall  find  another.  Allez,  courage!  Take  my  advice;  see 
Savarin  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  Of  course,  my 
name  and  calling  you  will  keep  a  profound  secret  from  him, 
as  from  all.  Say  as  mysteriously  as  you  can  that  parties  you 
are  forbidden  to  name  instruct  you  to  treat  with  M.  Savarin, 
and  offer  him  the  terms  I  have  specified,  the  thirty  thousand 
francs  paid  to  him  in  advance  the  moment  he  signs  the  simple 
memorandum  of  agreement.  The  more  mysterious  you  are, 
the  more  you  will  impose, — that  is,  wherever  you  offer  money 
and  don't  ask  for  it." 

Here  Lebeau  took  up  his  hat,  and,  with  a  courteous  nod  of 
adieu,  lightly  descended  the  gloomy  stairs. 


THE  PARISIANS.  285 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AT  night,  after  this  final  interview  with  Lebeau,  Graham 
took  leave  for  good  of  his  lodgings  in  Montmartre,  and  re- 
turned to  his  apartment  in  the  Rue  d'Anjou.  He  spent  sev- 
eral hours  of  the  next  morning  in  answering  numerous  letters 
accumulated  during  his  absence.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he 
had  an  interview  with  M.  Renard,  who,  as  at  that  season  of 
the  year  he  was  not  overbusied  with  other  affairs,  engaged  to 
obtain  leave  to  place  his  services  at  Graham's  command  dur- 
ing the  time  requisite  for  inquiries  at  Aix,  and  to  be  in  readi- 
ness to  start  the  next  day.  Graham  then  went  forth  to  pay 
one  or  two  farewell  visits;  and  these  over,  bent  his  way 
through  the  Champs  Elysees  towards  Isaura's  villa,  when  he 
suddenly  encountered  Rochebriant  on  horseback.  The  Mar- 
quis courteously  dismounted,  committing  his  horse  to  the 
care  of  the  groom,  and  linking  his  arm  in  Graham's,  expressed 
his  pleasure  at  seeing  him  again;  then,  with  some  visible 
hesitation  and  embarrassment,  he  turned  the  conversation 
towards  the  political  aspects  of  France. 

"There  was,"  he  said,  "much  in  certain  words  of  yours, 
when  we  last  walked  together  in  this  very  path,  that  sank 
deeply  into  my  mind  at  the  time,  and  over  which  I  have  of 
late  still  more  earnestly  reflected.  You  spoke  of  the  duties  a 
Frenchman  owed  to  France,  and  the  'impolicy'  of  remaining 
aloof  from  all  public  employment  on  the  part  of  those  attached 
to  the  Legitimist  cause." 

"  True ;  it  cannot  be  the  policy  of  any  party  to  forget  that 
between  the  irrevocable  past  and  the  uncertain  future  there 
intervenes  the  action  of  the  present  time." 

"  Should  you,  as  an  impartial  bystander,  consider  it  dishon- 
ourable in  me  if  I  entered  the  military  service  under  the 
ruling  sovereign?  " 

"Certainly  not,  if  your  country  needed  you." 


286  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  And  it  may,  may  it  not?  I  hear  vague  rumours  of  com- 
ing war  in  almost  every  salon  I  frequent.  There  has  been 
gunpowder  in  the  atmosphere  we  breathe  ever  since  the  battle 
of  Sadowa.  What  think  you  of  German  arrogance  and  ambi- 
tion? Will  they  suffer  the  swords  of  France  to  rust  in  their 
scabbards?" 

"My  dear  Marquis,  I  should  incline  to  put  the  question 
otherwise.  Will  the  jealous  amour  propre  of  France  permit 
the  swords  of  Germany  to  remain  sheathed?  But  in  either 
case,  no  politician  can  see  without  grave  apprehension  two 
nations  so  warlike,  close  to  each  other,  divided  by  a  border- 
land that  one  covets  and  the  other  will  not  yield,  each  armed 
to  the  teeth, —  the  one  resolved  to  brook  no  rival,  the  other 
equally  determined  to  resist  all  aggression.  And  therefore, 
as  you  say,  war  is  in  the  atmosphere ;  and  we  may  also  hear, 
in  the  clouds  that  give  no  sign  of  dispersion,  the  growl  of  the 
gathering  thunder.  War  may  come  any  day;  and  if  France 
be  not  at  once  the  victor  — " 

"France  not  at  once  the  victor?"  interrupted  Alain,  pas- 
sionately; "and  against  a  Prussian!  Permit  me  to  say  no 
Frenchman  can  believe  that." 

"Let  no  man  despise  a  foe,"  said  Graham,  smiling  half 
sadly.  "  However,  I  must  not  incur  the  danger  of  wounding 
your  national  susceptibilities.  To  return  to  the  point  you 
raise.  If  France  needed  the  aid  of  her  best  and  bravest,  a 
true  descendant  of  Henri  Quatre  ought  to  blush  for  his  an- 
cient nollesse  were  a  Kochebriant  to  say,  'But  I  don't  like  the 
colour  of  the  flag. ' ' 

"Thank  you,"  said  Alain,  simply;  "that  is  enough." 
There  was  a  pause,  the  young  men  walking  on  slowly,  arm  in 
arm.  And  then  there  flashed  across  Graham's  mind  the  rec- 
ollection of  talk  on  another  subject  in  that  very  path.  Here 
he  had  spoken  to  Alain  in  deprecation  of  any  possible  alli- 
ance with  Isaura  Cicogna,  the  destined  actress  and  public 
singer.  His  cheek  flushed;  his  heart  smote  him.  What! 
had  he  spoken  slightingly  of  her  —  of  her?  What  if  she  be- 
came his  own  wife?  What!  had  he  himself  failed  in  the  re- 
spect which  he  would  demand  as  her  right  from  the  loftiest 


THE  PARISIANS.  287 

of  his  high-born  kindred?  What,  too,  would  this  man,  of 
fairer  youth  than  himself,  think  of  that  disparaging  counsel, 
when  he  heard  that  the  monitor  had  won  the  prize  from  which 
he  had  warned  another?  Would  it  not  seem  that  he  had  but 
spoken  in  the  mean  cunning  dictated  by  the  fear  of  a  worthier 
rival?  Stung  by  these  thoughts,  he  arrested  his  steps,  and, 
looking  the  Marquis  full  in  the  face,  said,  "You  remind  me 
of  one  subject  in  our  talk  many  weeks  since;  it  is  my  duty  to 
remind  you  of  another.  At  that  time  you,  and,  speaking 
frankly,  I  myself,  acknowledged  the  charm  in  the  face  of  a 
young  Italian  lady.  I  told  you  then  that,  on  learning  she 
was  intended  for  the  stage,  the  charm  for  me  had  vanished. 
I  said  bluntly  that  it  should  vanish  perhaps  still  more  utterly 
for  a  noble  of  your  illustrious  name;  you  remember?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Alain,  hesitatingly,  and  with  a  look  of 
surprise. 

"I  wish  now  to  retract  all  I  said  thereon.  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna  is  not  bent  on  the  profession  for  which  she  was  edu- 
cated. She  would  willingly  renounce  all  idea  of  entering  it. 
The  only  counterweight  which,  viewed  whether  by  my  reason 
or  my  prejudices,  could  be  placed  in  the  opposite  scale  to  that 
of  the  excellences  which  might  make  any  man  proud  to  win 
her,  is  withdrawn.  I  have  become  acquainted  with  her  since 
the  date  of  our  conversation.  Hers  is  a  mind  which  harmon- 
izes with  the  loveliness  of  her  face.  In  one  word,  Marquis, 
I  should  deem  myself  honoured,  as  well  as  blest,  by  such  a 
bride.  It  was  due  to  her  that  I  should  say  this ;  it  was  due 
also  to  you,  in  case  you  should  retain  the  impression  I  sought 
in  ignorance  to  efface.  And  I  am  bound,  as  a  gentleman,  to 
obey  this  twofold  duty,  even  though  in  so  doing  I  bring  upon 
myself  the  affliction  of  a  candidate  for  the  hand  to  which  I 
would  fain  myself  aspire, —  a  candidate  with  pretensions  in 
every  way  far  superior  to  my  own." 

An  older  or  a  more  cynical  man  than  Alain  de  Eochebriant 
might  well  have  found  something  suspicious  in  a  confession 
thus  singularly  volunteered;  but  the  Marquis  was  himself  so 
loyal  that  he  had  no  doubt  of  the  loyalty  of  Graham. 

"I  reply  to  you,"  he  said,  "with  a  frankness  which  finds 


288  THE  PARISIANS. 

an  example  in  your  own.  The  first  fair  face  which  attracted 
my  fancy  since  my  arrival  at  Paris  was  that  of  the  Italian 
demoiselle  of  whom  you  speak  in  terms  of  such  respect.  I  do 
think  if  I  had  then  been  thrown  into  her  society,  and  found 
her  to  be  such  as  you  no  doubt  truthfully  describe,  that  fancy 
might  have  become  a  very  grave  emotion.  I  was  then  so 
poor,  so  friendless,  so  despondent!  Your  words  of  warning 
impressed  me  at  the  time,  but  less  durably  than  you  might 
suppose ;  for  that  very  night  as  I  sat  in  my  solitary  attic  I 
said  to  myself,  'Why  should  I  shrink,  with  an  obsolete  old- 
world  prejudice,  from  what  my  forefathers  would  have  termed 
a  mesalliance?  What  is  the  value  of  my  birthright  now? 
None, —  worse  than  none.  It  excludes  me  from  all  careers; 
my  name  is  but  a  load  that  weighs  me  down.  Why  should  I 
make  that  name  a  curse  as  well  as  a  burden?  Nothing  is  left 
to  me  but  that  which  is  permitted  to  all  men, — wedded  and 
holy  love.  Could  I  win  to  my  heart  the  smile  of  a  woman 
who  brings  me  that  dower,  the  home  of  my  fathers  would  lose 
its  gloom.'  And  therefore,  if  at  that  time  I  had  become 
familiarly  acquainted  with  her  who  had  thus  attracted  my 
eye  and  engaged  my  thoughts,  she  might  have  become  my 
destiny;  but  now! " 

"But  now?" 

"  Things  have  changed.  I  am  no  longer  poor,  friendless, 
solitary.  I  have  entered  the  world  of  my  equals  as  a  Roche- 
briant;  I  have  made  myself  responsible  for  the  dignity  of  my 
name.  I  could  not  give  that  name  to  one,  however  peerless 
in  herself,  of  whom  the  world  would  say,  '  But  for  her  mar- 
riage she  would  have  been  a  singer  on  the  stage ! '  I  will 
own  more :  the  fancy  I  conceived  for  the  first  fair  face,  other 
fair  faces  have  dispelled.  At  this  moment,  however,  I  have 
no  thought  of  marriage;  and  having  known  the  anguish  of 
struggle,  the  privations  of  poverty,  I  would  ask  no  woman  to 
share  the  hazard  of  my  return  to  them.  You  might  present 
me,  then,  safely  to  this  beautiful  Italian, —  certain,  indeed, 
that  I  should  be  her  admirer;  equally  certain  that  I  could 
not  become  your  rival." 

There  was   something   in   this    speech   that   jarred   upon 


THE   PARISIANS.  289 

Graham's  sensitive  pride;  but  on  the  whole,  he  felt  relieved, 
both  in  honour  and  in  heart.  After  a  few  more  words,  the 
two  young  men  shook  hands  and  parted.  Alain  remounted 
his  horse.  The  day  was  now  declining.  Graham  hailed  a 
vacant  fiacre,  and  directed  the  driver  to  Isaura's  villa. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

ISAURA. 

THE  sun  was  sinking  slowly  as  Isaura  sat  at  her  window, 
gazing  dreamily  on  the  rose-hued  clouds  that  made  the  west- 
ern borderland  between  earth  and  heaven.  On  the  table  be- 
fore her  lay  a  few  sheets  of  manuscript  hastily  written,  not 
yet  reperused.  That  restless  mind  of  hers  had  left  its  trace 
on  the  manuscript. 

It  is  characteristic  perhaps  of  the  different  genius  of  the 
sexes,  that  woman  takes  to  written  composition  more  impul- 
sively, more  intuitively,  than  man, —  letter-writing,  to  him  a 
task-work,  is  to  her  a  recreation.  Between  the  age  of  sixteen 
and  the  date  of  marriage,  six  well-educated  clever  girls  out  of 
ten  keep  a  journal ;  not  one  well-educated  man  in  ten  thou- 
sand does.  So,  without  serious  and  settled  intention  of  be- 
coming an  author,  how  naturally  a  girl  of  ardent  feeling  and 
vivid  fancy  seeks  in  poetry  or  romance  a  confessional,  —  an 
outpouring  of  thought  and  sentiment,  which  are  mysteries  to 
herself  till  she  has  given  them  words,  and  which,  frankly 
revealed  on  the  page,  she  would  not,  perhaps  could  not,  utter 
orally  to  a  living  ear. 

During  the  last  few  days,  the  desire  to  create  in  the  realm 
of  fable  beings  constructed  by  her  own  breath,  spiritualized 
by  her  own  soul,  had  grown  irresistibly  upon  this  fair  child 
of  song.  In  fact,  when  Graham's  words  had  decided  the  re- 
nunciation of  her  destined  career,  her  instinctive  yearnings 

VOL.  I.  —  19 


290  THE  PARISIANS. 

for  the  utterance  of  those  sentiments  or  thoughts  which  can 
only  find  expression  in  some  form  of  art,  denied  the  one  vent, 
irresistibly  impelled  her  to  the  other.  And  in  this  impulse 
she  was  confirmed  by  the  thought  that  here  at  least  there  was 
nothing  which  her  English  friend  could  disapprove,  —  none  of 
the  perils  that  beset  the  actress.  Here  it  seemed  as  if,  could 
she  but  succeed,  her  fame  would  be  grateful  to  the  pride  of 
all  who  loved  her.  Here  was  a  career  ennobled  by  many  a 
woman,  and  side  by  side  in  rivalry  with  renowned  men.  To 
her  it  seemed  that,  could  she  in  this  achieve  an  honoured 
name,  that  name  took  its  place  at  once  amid  the  higher  ranks 
of  the  social  world,  and  in  itself  brought  a  priceless  dowry 
and  a  starry  crown.  It  was,  however,  not  till  after  the  visit 
to  Enghien  that  this  ambition  took  practical  life  and  form. 

One  evening  after  her  return  to  Paris,  by  an  effort  so  invol- 
untary that  it  seemed  to  her  no  effort,  she  had  commenced  a 
tale, —  without  plan,  without  method,  without  knowing  in 
one  page  what  would  fill  the  next.  Her  slight  fingers  hurried 
on  as  if,  like  the  pretended  spirit  manifestations,  impelled  by 
an  invisible  agency  without  the  pale  of  the  world.  She  was 
intoxicated  by  the  mere  joy  of  inventing  ideal  images.  In 
her  own  special  art  an  elaborate  artist,  here  she  had  no 
thought  of  art;  if  art  was  in  her  work,  it  sprang  uncon- 
sciously from  the  harmony  between  herself  and  her  subject, 
—  as  it  is,  perhaps,  with  the  early  soarings  of  the  genuine 
lyric  poets,  in  contrast  to  the  dramatic.  For  the  true  lyric 
poet  is  intensely  personal,  intensely  subjective.  It  is  him- 
self that  he  expresses,  that  he  represents;  and  he  almost 
ceases  to  be  lyrical  when  he  seeks  to  go  out  of  his  own  exist- 
ence into  that  of  others  with  whom  he  has  no  sympathy,  no 
rapport.  This  tale  was  vivid  with  genius  as  yet  untutored, — 
genius  in  its  morning  freshness,  full  of  beauties,  full  of 
faults.  Isaura  distinguished  not  the  faults  from  the  beauties. 
She  felt  only  a  vague  persuasion  that  there  was  a  something 
higher  and  brighter  —  a  something  more  true  to  her  own  idio- 
syncrasy—  than  could  be  achieved  by  the  art  that  "sings  other 
people's  words  to  other  people's  music."  From  the  work  thus 
commenced  she  had  now  paused;  and  it  seemed  to  her  fancies 


THE   PARISIANS.  291 

that  between  her  inner  self  and  the  scene  without,  whether  in 
the  skies  and  air  and  sunset,  or  in  the  abodes  of  men  stretch- 
ing far  and  near  till  lost  amid  the  roofs  and  domes  of  the 
great  city,  she  had  fixed  and  riveted  the  link  of  a  sympathy 
hitherto  fluctuating,  unsubstantial,  evanescent,  undefined. 
Absorbed  in  her  revery,  she  did  not  notice  the  deepening 
of  the  short  twilight,  till  the  servant  entering  drew  the  cur- 
tains between  her  and  the  world  without,  and  placed  the  lamp 
on  the  table  beside  her.  Then  she  turned  away  with  a  rest- 
less sigh;  her  eyes  fell  on  the  manuscript,  but  the  charm  of  it 
was  gone.  A  sentiment  of  distrust  in  its  worth  had  crept 
into  her  thoughts,  unconsciously  to  herself,  and  the  page  open 
before  her  at  an  uncompleted  sentence  seemed  unwelcome  and 
wearisome  as  a  copy-book  is  to  a  child  condemned  to  relin- 
quish a  fairy  tale  half  told,  and  apply  himself  to  a  task  half 
done.  She  fell  again  into  a  revery,  when,  starting  as  from 
a  dream,  she  heard  herself  addressed  by  name,  and  turning 
round  saw  Savarin  and  Gustave  Rameau  in  the  room. 

"We  are  come,  Signorina,"  said  Savarin,  "to  announce  to 
you  a  piece  of  news,  and  to  hazard  a  petition.  The  news  is 
this :  my  young  friend  here  has  found  a  Maecenas  who  has  the 
good  taste  so  to  admire  his  lucubrations  under  the  nom  de 
plume  of  Alphonse  de  Valcour  as  to  volunteer  the  expenses 
for  starting  a  new  journal,  of  which  Gustave  Rameau  is  to  be 
editor-in-chief;  and  I  have  promised  to  assist  him  as  contrib- 
utor for  the  first  two  months.  I  have  given  him  notes  of  in- 
troduction to  certain  other  feuilletonistes  and  critics  whom  he 
has  on  his  list.  But  all  put  together  would  not  serve  to  float 
the  journal  like  a  short  roman  from  Madame  de  Grantmesnil. 
Knowing  your  intimacy  with  that  eminent  artist,  I  venture 
to  back  Kameau's  supplication  that  you  would  exert  your 
influence  on  his  behalf.  As  to  the  honoraires,  she  has  but  to 
name  them." 

"  Carte  blanche, "  cried  Kameau,  eagerly. 

"You know  Eulalie  too  well,  Monsieur  Savarin,"  answered 
Isaura,  with  a  smile  half  reproachful,  "  to  suppose  that  she  is  a 
mercenary  in  letters,  and  sells  her  services  to  the  best  bidder." 

"  Bah,    belle   enfant ! "    said  Savarin,    with    his   gay   light 


292  THE  PARISIANS. 

laugh.  "Business  is  business,  and  books  as  well  as  razors  are 
made  to  sell.  But,  of  course,  a  proper  prospectus  of  the 
journal  must  accompany  your  request  to  write  in  it.  Mean- 
while Rameau  will  explain  to  you,  as  he  has  done  to  me,  that 
the  journal  in  question  is  designed  for  circulation  among 
readers  of  haute  classe  ;  it  is  to  be  pleasant  and  airy,  full  of 
bons  mots  and  anecdote ;  witty,  but  not  ill-natured,  politics 
to  be  Liberal,  of  course,  but  of  elegant  admixture, — cham- 
pagne and  seltzer-water.  In  fact,  however,  I  suspect  that 
the  politics  will  be  a  very  inconsiderable  feature  in  this  organ 
of  fine  arts  and  manners ;  some  amateur  scribbler  in  the  beau 
monde  will  supply  them.  For  the  rest,  if  my  introductory 
letters  are  successful,  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  will  not  be  in 
bad  company." 

"You  will  write  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil?"  asked 
Rameau,  pleadingly. 

"  Certainly  I  will,  as  soon  —  " 

"  As  soon  as  you  have  the  prospectus,  and  the  names  of  the 
collaborateurs,"  interrupted  Rameau.  "I  hope  to  send  you 
these  in  a  very  few  days." 

While  Rameau  was  thus  speaking,  Savarin  had  seated  him- 
self by  the  table,  and  his  eye  mechanically  resting  on  the 
open  manuscript  lighted  by  chance  upon  a  sentence  —  an 
aphorism  —  embodying  a  very  delicate  sentiment  in  very  fe- 
licitous diction,  —  one  of  those  choice  condensations  of  thought, 
suggesting  so  much  more  than  is  said,  which  are  never  found 
in  mediocre  writers,  and,  rare  even  in  the  best,  come  upon  us 
like  truths  seized  by  surprise. 

"Parbleitf"  exclaimed  Savarin,  in  the  impulse  of  genuine 
admiration,  "but  this  is  beautiful;  what  is  more,  it  is  orig- 
inal,"—  and  he  read  the  words  aloud.  Blushing  with  shame 
and  resentment,  Isaura  turned  and  hastily  placed  her  hand 
on  the  manuscript. 

"Pardon,"  said  Savarin,  humbly;  "I  confess  my  sin,  but  it 
was  so  unpremeditated  that  it  does  not  merit  a  severe  penance. 
Do  not  look  at  me  so  reproachfully.  We  all  know  that  young 
ladies  keep  commonplace  books  in  which  they  enter  passages 
that  strike  them  in  the  works  they  read;  and  you  have  but 


THE  PARISIANS.  293 

shown  an  exquisite  taste  in  selecting  this  gem.  Do  tell  me 
where  you  found  it.  Is  it  somewhere  in  Lamartine?  " 

"No,"  answered  Isaura,  half  inaudibly,  and  with  an  effort 
to  withdraw  the  paper.  Savarin  gently  detained  her  hand, 
and  looking  earnestly  into  her  tell-tale  face,  divined  her 
secret. 

"  It  is  your  own,  Signorina !  Accept  the  congratulations  of 
a  very  practised  and  somewhat  fastidious  critic.  If  the  rest 
of  what  you  write  resembles  this  sentence,  contribute  to 
Rameau's  journal,  and  I  answer  for  its  success." 

Rameau  approached,  half  incredulous,  half  envious. 

"My  dear  child,"  resumed  Savarin,  drawing  away  the  man- 
uscript from  Isaura's  coy,  reluctant  clasp,  "  do  permit  me  to 
cast  a  glance  over  these  papers.  For  what  I  yet  know,  there 
may  be  here  more  promise  of  fame  than  even  you  could  gain 
as  a  singer." 

The  electric  chord  in  Isaura's  heart  was  touched.  Who 
cannot  conceive  what  the  young  writer  feels,  especially  the 
young  woman-writer,  when  hearing  the  first  cheery  note  of 
praise  from  the  lips  of  a  writer  of  established  fame? 

"  Nay,  this  cannot  be  worth  your  reading, "  said  Isaura,  f al- 
teringly;  "I  have  never  written  anything  of  the  kind  before, 
and  this  is  a  riddle  to  me.  I  know  not,"  she  added,  with  a 
sweet  low  laugh,  "why  I  began,  nor  how  I  should  end  it." 

"  So  much  the  better, "  said  Savarin ;  and  he  took  the  manu- 
script, withdrew  to  a  recess  by  the  farther  window,  and  seated 
himself  there,  reading  silently  and  quickly,  but  now  and  then 
with  a  brief  pause  of  reflection. 

Rameau  placed  himself  beside  Isaura  on  the  divan,  and  be- 
gan talking  with  her  earnestly,  —  earnestly,  for  it  was  about 
himself  and  his  aspiring  hopes.  Isaura,  on  the  other  hand, 
more  woman-like  than  author-like,  ashamed  even  to  seem  ab- 
sorbed in  herself  and  her  hopes,  and  with  her  back  turned,  in 
the  instinct  of  that  shame,  against  the  reader  of  her  manu- 
script,—  Isaura  listened  and  sought  to  interest  herself  solely 
in  the  young  fellow-author.  Seeking  to  do  so  she  succeeded 
genuinely,  for  ready  sympathy  was  a  prevalent  characteristic 
of  her  nature. 


294  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  Ob, "  said  Eameau,  "  I  ain  at  the  turning-point  of  my  life. 
Ever  since  boyhood  I  have  been  haunted  with  the  words  of 
Andre  Chenier  on  the  morning  he  was  led  to  the  scaffold: 
'And  yet  there  was  something  here/  striking  his  forehead. 
Yes,  I,  poor,  low-born,  launching  myself  headlong  in  the 
chase  of  a  name;  I,  underrated,  uncomprehended,  indebted 
even  for  a  hearing  to  the  patronage  of  an  amiable  trifler  like 
Savarin,  ranked  by  petty  rivals  in  a  grade  below  themselves, 
—  I  now  see  before  me,  suddenly,  abruptly  presented,  the 
expanding  gates  into  fame  and  fortune.  Assist  me,  you!  " 

"But  how?"  said  Isaura,  already  forgetting  her  manu- 
script; and  certainly  Rameau  did  not  refer  to  that. 

"  How !  "  echoed  Kameau ;  "  how !  But  do  you  not  see  — 
or  at  least,  do  you  not  conjecture  —  this  journal  of  which 
Savarin  speaks  contains  my  present  and  my  future?  Present 
independence,  opening  to  fortune  and  renown.  Ay, —  and 
who  shall  say?  renown  beyond  that  of  the  mere  writer.  Be- 
hind the  gaudy  scaffolding  of  this  rickety  Empire,  a  new  so- 
cial edifice  unperceived  arises ;  and  in  that  edifice  the  halls  of 
State  shall  be  given  to  the  men  who  help  obscurely  to  build 
it,  —  to  men  like  me."  Here,  drawing  her  hand  into  his  own, 
fixing  on  her  the  most  imploring  gaze  of  his  dark  persuasive 
eyes,  and  utterly  unconscious  of  bathos  in  his  adjuration,  he 
added:  " Plead  for  me  with  your  whole  mind  and  heart;  use 
your  uttermost  influence  with  the  illustrious  writer  whose 
pen  can  assure  the  fates  of  my  journal." 

Here  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  following  the  servant, 
who  announced  unintelligibly  his  name,  there  entered  Graham 
Vane. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE  Englishman  halted  at  the  threshold.  His  eye,  passing 
rapidly  over  the  figure  of  Savarin  reading  in  the  window- 
niche,  rested  upon  Rameau  and  Isaura  seated  on  the  same 
divan,  he  with  her  hand  clasped  in  both  his  own,  and  bend- 


THE  PARISIANS.  295 

ing  his  face  towards  hers  so  closely  that  a  loose  tress  of  her 
hair  seemed  to  touch  his  forehead. 

The  Englishman  halted,  and  no  revolution  which  changes 
the  habitudes  and  forms  of  States  was  ever  so  sudden  as  that 
which  passed  without  a  word  in  the  depths  of  his  unconject- 
ured  heart.  The  heart  has  no  history  which  philosophers 
can  recognize.  An  ordinary  political  observer,  contemplat- 
ing the  condition  of  a  nation,  may  very  safely  tell  us  what 
effects  must  follow  the  causes  patent  to  his  eyes ;  but  the  wis- 
est and  most  far-seeing  sage,  looking  at  a  man  at  one  o'clock, 
cannot  tell  us  what  revulsions  of  his  whole  being  may  be 
made  ere  the  clock  strike  two. 

As  Isaura  rose  to  greet  her  visitor,  Savarin  came  from  the 
window-niche,  the  manuscript  in  his  hand. 

"Son  of  perfidious  Albion,"  said  Savarin,  gayly,  "we 
feared  you  had  deserted  the  French  alliance.  Welcome  back 
to  Paris,  and  the  entente  cordiale." 

"Would  I  could  stay  to  enjoy  such  welcome!  but  I  must 
again  quit  Paris." 

"  Soon  to  return,  n'est  ce  pas  ?  Paris  is  an  irresistible 
magnet  to  les  beaux  esprits.  A  propos  of  beaux  esprits,  be 
sure  to  leave  orders  with  your  bookseller,  if  you  have  one,  to 
enter  your  name  as  subscriber  to  a  new  journal." 

"Certainly,  if  Monsieur  Savarin  recommends  it." 

"He  recommends  it  as  a  matter  of  course;  he  writes  in  it," 
said  Eameau. 

"A  sufficient  guarantee  for  its  excellence.  What  is  the 
name  of  the  journal?" 

"Not  yet  thought  of,"  answered  Savarin.  "Babes  must  be 
born  before  they  are  christened;  but  it  will  be  instruction 
enough  to  your  bookseller  to  order  the  new  journal  to  be  edited 
by  Gustave  Rameau." 

Bowing  ceremoniously  to  the  editor  in  prospect,  Graham 
said,  half  ironically,  "  May  I  hope  that  in  the  department  of 
criticism  you  will  not  be  too  hard  upon  poor  Tasso?" 

"Never  fear;  the  Signorina,  who  adores  Tasso,  will  take 
him  under  her  special  protection,"  said  Savarin,  interrupting 
Rameau's  sullen  and  embarrassed  reply. 


296  THE  PARISIANS. 

Graham's  brow  slightly  contracted.  "Mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  "  is  then  to  be  united  in  the  conduct  of  this  journal  with 
M.  Gustave  Eameau?  " 

"  No,  indeed ! "  exclaimed  Isaura,  somewhat  frightened  at 
the  idea. 

"But  I  hope,"  said  Savarin,  "that  the  Signorina  may  be- 
come a  contributor  too  important  for  an  editor  to  offend  by 
insulting  her  favourites,  Tasso  included.  Eameau  and  I 
came  hither  to  entreat  her  influence  with  her  intimate  and 
illustrious  friend,  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  to  insure  the  suc- 
cess of  our  undertaking  by  sanctioning  the  announcement  of 
her  name  as  a  contributor." 

"Upon  social  questions, —  such  as  the  laws  of  marriage?" 
said  Graham,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  which  concealed  the 
quiver  of  his  lip  and  the  pain  in  his  voice. 

"Nay,"  answered  Savarin,  "our  journal  will  be  too  spor- 
tive, I  hope,  for  matters  so  profound.  We  would  rather  have 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  aid  in  some  short  roman,  which 
will  charm  the  fancy  of  all  and  offend  the  opinions  of  none. 
But  since  I  came  into  the  room,  I  care  less  for  the  Signorina's 
influence  with  the  great  authoress,"  and  he  glanced  signifi- 
cantly at  the  manuscript. 

"How  so?"  asked  Graham,  his  eye  following  the  glance. 

"If  the  writer  of  this  manuscript  will  conclude  what  she 
has  begun,  we  shall  be  independent  of  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil." 

"Fie!  "  cried  Tsaura,  impulsively,  her  face  and  neck  bathed 
in  blushes, —  "fie!  such  words  are  a  mockery." 

Graham  gazed  at  her  intently,  and  then  turned  his  eyes  on 
Savarin.  He  guessed  aright  the  truth.  "Mademoiselle  then 
is  an  author?  In  the  style  of  her  friend  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil?" 

"  Bah !  "  said  Savarin,  "  I  should  indeed  be  guilty  of  mock- 
ery if  I  paid  the  Signorina  so  false  a  compliment  as  to  say 
that  in  a  first  effort  she  attained  to  the  style  of  one  of  the 
most  finished  sovereigns  of  language  that  has  ever  swayed  the 
literature  of  France.  When  I  say,  'Give  us  this  tale  com- 
pleted, and  I  shall  be  consoled  if  the  journal  does  not  gain 


THE  PARISIANS.  297 

the  aid  of  Madame  de  Grantmesnil, '  I  mean  that  in  these 
pages  there  is  that  nameless  charm  of  freshness  and  novelty 
which  compensates  for  many  faults  never. committed  by  a 
practised  pen  like  Madame  de  Grantmesnil's.  My  dear  young 
lady,  go  on  with  this  story, —  finish  it;  when  finished,  do  not 
disdain  any  suggestions  I  may  offer  in  the  way  of  correction, 
—  and  I  will  venture  to  predict  to  you  so  brilliant  a  career  as 
author,  that  you  will  not  regret  should  you  resign  for  that 
career  the  bravoes  you  could  command  as  actress  and  singer." 

The  Englishman  pressed  his  hand  convulsively  to  his  heart, 
as  if  smitten  by  a  sudden  spasm.  But  as  his  eyes  rested  on 
Isaura's  face,  which  had  become  radiant  with  the  enthusiastic 
delight  of  genius  when  the  path  it  would  select  opens  before 
it  as  if  by  a  flash  from  heaven,  whatever  of  jealous  irritation, 
whatever  of  selfish  pain  he  might  before  have  felt,  was  gone, 
merged  in  a  sentiment  of  unutterable  sadness  and  compassion. 
Practical  man  as  he  was,  he  knew  so  well  all  the  dangers,  all 
the  snares,  all  the  sorrows,  all  the  scandals  menacing  name 
and  fame,  that  in  the  world  of  Paris  must  beset  the  fatherless 
girl  who,  not  less  in  authorship  than  on  the  stage,  leaves  the 
safeguard  of  private  life  forever  behind  her,  who  becomes  a 
prey  to  the  tongues  of  the  public.  At  Paris,  how  slender  is 
the  line  that  divides  the  authoress  from  the  Boh&mienne  !  He 
sank  into  his  chair  silently,  and  passed  his  hand  over  his 
eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  a  vision  of  the  future. 

Isaura  in  her  excitement  did  not  notice  the  effect  on  her 
English  visitor.  She  could  not  have  divined  such  an  effect 
as  possible.  On  the  contrary,  even  subordinate  to  her  joy  at 
the  thought  that  she  had  not  mistaken  the  instincts  which 
led  her  to  a  nobler  vocation  than  that  of  the  singer,  that  the 
cage-bar  was  opened,  and  space  bathed  in  sunshine  was  invit- 
ing the  new-felt  wings, —  subordinate  even  to  that  joy  was  a 
joy  more  wholly,  more  simply  woman's.  "If,"  thought  she, 
in  this  joy,  "if  this  be  true,  my  proud  ambition  is  realized; 
all  disparities  of  worth  and  fortune  are  annulled  between  me 
and  him  to  whom  I  would  bring  no  shame  of  mesalliance  !  " 
Poor  dreamer,  poor  child! 

"You  will  let  me  see  what  you  have  written,"  said  Kameait, 


298  THE  PARISIANS. 

somewhat  imperiously,  in  the  sharp  voice  habitual  to  him,  and 
which  pierced  Graham's  ear  like  a  splinter  of  glass. 

"No,  not  now;  when  finished." 

" You  will  finish  it?" 

"Oh,  yes;  how  can  I  help  it  after  such  encouragement?" 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  Savarin,  who  kissed  it  gallantly; 
then  her  eyes  intuitively  sought  Graham's.  By  that  time  he 
had  recovered  his  self-possession.  He  met  her  look  tranquilly, 
and  with  a  smile;  but  the  smile  chilled  her,  she  knew  not 
why. 

The  conversation  then  passed  upon  books  and  authors  of 
the  day,  and  was  chiefly  supported  by  the  satirical  pleasan- 
tries of  Savarin,  who  was  in  high  good-spirits. 

Graham,  who,  as  we  know,  had  come  with  the  hope  of  see- 
ing Isaura  alone,  and  with  the  intention  of  uttering  words 
which,  however  guarded,  might  yet  in  absence  serve  as  links 
of  union,  now  no  longer  coveted  that  interview,  no  longer 
meditated  those  words.  He  soon  rose  to  depart. 

"Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow?"  asked  Savarin. 
"Perhaps  I  may  induce  the  Signorina  and  Eameau  to  offer 
you  the  temptation  of  meeting  them." 

"By  to-morrow  I  shall  be  leagues  away." 

Isaura's  heart  sank.  This  time  the  manuscript  was  fairly 
forgotten. 

"  You  never  said  you  were  going  so  soon,"  cried  Savarin. 
"When  do  you  come  back,  vile  deserter?" 

"  I  cannot  even  guess.  Monsieur  Rameau,  count  me  among 
your  subscribers.  Mademoiselle,  my  best  regards  to  Signora 
Venosta.  When  I  see  you  again,  no  doubt  you  will  have 
become  famous." 

Isaura  here  could  not  control  herself.  She  rose  impul- 
sively, and  approached  him,  holding  out  her  hand,  and 
attempting  a  smile. 

"But  not  famous  in  the  way  that  you  warned  me  from,"  she 
said  in  whispered  tones.  "You  are  friends  with  me  still?" 
It  was  like  the  piteous  wail  of  a  child  seeking  to  make  it  up 
with  one  who  wants  to  quarrel,  the  child  knows  not  why. 

Graham   was   moved,  but  what  could  he  say?     Could  he 


THE  PAEISIANS.  299 

have  the  right  to  warn  her  from  this  profession  also ;  forbid 
all  desires,  all  roads  of  fame  to  this  brilliant  aspirant?  Even 
a  declared  and  accepted  lover  might  well  have  deemed  that 
that  would  be  to  ask  too  much.  He  replied,  "  Yes,  always  a 
friend,  if  you  could  ever  need  one."  Her  hand  slid  from  his, 
and  she  turned  away  wounded  to  the  quick. 

"Have  you  your  coup&  at  the  door?"  asked  Savarin. 

"Simply  a  fiacre." 

"And  are  going  back  at  once  to  Paris?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  kindly  drop  me  in  the  Eue  de  Eivoli?" 

"Charmed  to  be  of  use." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

As  the  fiacre  bore  to  Paris  Savarin  and  Graham,  the  former 
said,  "  I  cannot  conceive  what  rich  simpleton  could  entertain 
so  high  an  opinion  of  Gustave  Rameau  as  to  select  a  man  so 
young,  and  of  reputation  though  promising  so  undecided,  for 
an  enterprise  which  requires  such  a  degree  of  tact  and  judg- 
ment as  the  conduct  of  a  new  journal, —  and  a  journal,  too, 
which  is  to  address  itself  to  the  beau  monde.  However,  it  is 
not  for  me  to  criticise  a  selection  which  brings  a  god-send  to 
myself." 

"To  yourself?  You  jest;  you  have  a  journal  of  your  own. 
It  can  only  be  through  an  excess  of  good-nature  that  you  lend 
your  name  and  pen  to  the  service  of  M.  Gustave  Rameau." 

"  My  good-nature  does  not  go  to  that  extent.  It  is  Rameau 
who  confers  a  service  upon  me.  Peste  !  mon  cher,  we  French 
authors  have  not  the  rents  of  you  rich  English  milords.  And 
though  I  am  the  most  economical  of  our  tribe,  yet  that  jour- 
nal of  mine  has  failed  me  of  late ;  and  this  morning  I  did  not 
exactly  see  how  I  was  to  repay  a  sum  I  had  been  obliged  to 
borrow  of  a  money-lender, —  for  I  am  too  proud  to  borrow  of 
friends,  and  too  sagacious  to  borrow  of  publishers,  —  when  in 
walks  ce  cher  petit  Gustave  with  an  offer  for  a  few  trifles  to- 


300  THE  PARISIANS. 

wards  starting  this  new-born  journal,  which  makes  a  new  man 
of  me.  Now  I  am  in  the  undertaking,  my  amour  propre  and 
my  reputation  are  concerned  in  its  success ;  and  I  shall  take 
care  that  collaborateurs  of  whose  company  I  am  not  ashamed 
are  in  the  same  boat.  But  that  charming  girl,  Isaura! 
What  an  enigma  the  gift  of  the  pen  is!  No  one  can  ever 
guess  who  has  it  until  tried." 

"The  young  lady's  manuscript,  then,  really  merits  the 
praise  you  bestowed  on  it?" 

"  Much  more  praise,  though  a  great  deal  of  blame,  which  I 
did  not  bestow, —  for  in  a  first  work  faults  insure  success  as 
much  as  beauties.  Anything  better  than  tame  correctness. 
Yes,  her  first  work,  to  judge  by  what  is  written,  must  make 
a  hit,  —  a  great  hit.  And  that  will  decide  her  career.  A 
singer,  an  actress,  may  retire, —  often  does  when  she  marries 
an  author;  but  once  an  author  always  an  author." 

"Ah!  is  it  so?  If  you  had  a  beloved  daughter,  Savarin, 
would  you  encourage  her  to  be  an  author?" 

"  Frankly,  no :  principally  because  in  that  case  the  chances 
are  that  she  would  marry  an  author ;  and  French  authors,  at 
least  in  the  imaginative  school,  make  very  uncomfortable 
husbands." 

"Ah!  you  think  the  Signorina  will  marry  one  of  those 
uncomfortable  husbands, —  M.  Eameau,  perhaps?" 

"Bameau!  Hein!  nothing  more  likely.  That  beautiful 
face  of  his  has  its  fascination.  And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my 
wife,  who  is  a  striking  illustration  of  the  truth  that  what 
woman  wills  heaven  wills,  is  bent  upon  that  improvement  in 
Gustave's  moral  life  which  she  thinks  a  union  with  Made- 
moiselle Cicogna  would  achieve.  At  all  events,  the  fair  Ita- 
lian would  have  in  Bameau  a  husband  who  would  not  suffer 
her  to  bury  her  talents  under  a  bushel.  If  she  succeeds  as  a 
writer  (by  succeeding  I  mean  making  money),  he  will  see 
that  her  ink-bottle  is  never  empty;  and  if  she  don't  succeed 
as  a  writer,  he  will  take  care  that  the  world  shall  gain  an 
actress  or  a  singer.  For  Gustave  Bameau  has  a  great  taste 
for  luxury  and  show ;  and  whatever  his  wife  can  make,  I  will 
venture  to  say  that  he  will  manage  to  spend." 


THE  PARISIANS.  301 

"  I  thought  you  had  an  esteem  and  regard  for  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna.  It  is  Madame  your  wife,  I  suppose,  who  has  a 
grudge  against  her?" 

"On  the  contrary,  my  wife  idolizes  her." 

"Savages  sacrifice  to  their  idols  the  things  they  deem  of 
value;  civilized  Parisians  sacrifice  their  idols  themselves, — 
and  to  a  thing  that  is  worthless." 

"Rameau  is  not  worthless;  he  has  beauty  and  youth  and 
talent.  My  wife  thinks  more  highly  of  him  than  I  do ;  but 
I  must  respect  a  man  who  has  found  admirers  so  sincere  as 
to  set  him  up  in  a  journal,  and  give  him  carte  blanche  for 
terms  to  contributors.  I  know  of  no  man  in  Paris  more  val- 
uable to  me.  His  worth  to  me  this  morning  is  thirty  thou- 
sand francs.  I  own  I  do  not  think  him  likely  to  be  a  very 
safe  husband;  but  then  French  female  authors  and  artists 
seldom  take  any  husbands  except  upon  short  leases.  There 
are  no  vulgar  connubial  prejudices  in  the  pure  atmosphere  of 
art.  "Women  of  genius,  like  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  and 
perhaps  like  our  charming  young  friend,  resemble  canary- 
birds, —  to  sing  their  best  you  must  separate  them  from  their 
mates." 

The  Englishman  suppressed  a  groan,  and  turned  the 
conversation. 

When  he  had  set  down  his  lively  companion,  Vane  dismissed 
his  fiacre,  and  walked  to  his  lodgings  musingly. 

"No,"  he  said  inly;  "I  must  wrench  myself  from  the  very 
memory  of  that  haunting  face, — the  friend  and  pupil  of  Ma- 
dame de  Grantmesnil,  the  associate  of  Gustave  Rameau,  the 
rival  of  Julie  Caumartin,  the  aspirant  to  that  pure  atmos- 
phere of  art  in  which  there  are  no  vulgar  connubial  prejudices ! 
Could  I  —  whether  I  be  rich  or  poor  —  see  in  her  the  ideal  of 
an  English  wife?  As  it  is  —  as  it  is  —  with  this  mystery 
which  oppresses  me,  which,  till  solved,  leaves  my  own  career 
insoluble,  —  as  it  is,  how  fortunate  that  I  did  not  find  her 
alone ;  did  not  utter  the  words  that  would  fain  have  leaped 
from  my  heart;  did  not  say,  'I  may  not  be  the  rich  man  I 
seem,  but  in  that  case  I  shall  be  yet  more  ambitious,  because 
struggle  and  labour  are  the  sinews  of  ambition!  Should  I 


302  THE  PARISIANS. 

be  rich,  will  you  adorn  my  station?  Should  I  be  poor,  will 
you  enrich  poverty  with  your  smile?  And  can  you,  in  either 
case,  forego  —  really,  painlessly  forego,  as  you  led  me  to  hope 
—  the  pride  in  your  own  art?  '  My  ambition  were  killed  did 
I  marry  an  actress,  a  singer.  Better  that  than  the  hungerer 
after  excitements  which  are  never  allayed,  the  struggler  in  a 
career  which  admits  of  no  retirement, — the  woman  to  whom 
marriage  is  no  goal,  who  remains  to  the  last  the  property  of 
the  public,  and  glories  to  dwell  in  a  house  of  glass  into  which 
every  bystander  has  a  right  to  peer.  Is  this  the  ideal  of  an 
Englishman's  wife  and  home?  No,  no!  —  woe  is  me,  no!  " 


BOOK    VI. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  FEW  weeks  after  the  date  of  the  preceding  chapter,  a 
gay  party  of  men  were  assembled  at  supper  in  one  of  the  pri- 
vate salons  of  the  Maison  Doree.  The  supper  was  given  by 
Frederic  Lemercier,  and  the  guests  were,  though  in  various 
ways,  more  or  less  distinguished.  Eank  and  fashion  were 
not  unworthily  represented  by  Alain  de  Rochebriant  and 
Enguerrand  de  Vandemar,  by  whose  supremacy  as  "lion" 
Frederic  still  felt  rather  humbled,  though  Alain  had  con- 
trived to  bring  them  familiarly  together.  Art,  Literature, 
and  the  Bourse  had  also  their  representatives  in  Henri 
Bernard,  a  rising  young  portrait-painter,  whom  the  Emperor 
honoured  with  his  patronage,  the  Vicomte  de  Breze,  and  M. 
Savarin.  Science  was  not  altogether  forgotten,  but  contri- 
buted its  agreeable  delegate  in  the  person  of  the  eminent  phy- 
sician to  whom  we  have  been  before  introduced, —  Dr.  Bacourt. 
Doctors  in  Paris  are  not  so  serious  as  they  mostly  are  in  Lon- 
don; and  Bacourt,  a  pleasant  philosopher  of  the  school  of 
Aristippus,  was  no  unfrequent  nor  ungenial  guest  at  any  ban- 
quet in  which  the  Graces  relaxed  their  zones.  Martial  glory 
was  also  represented  at  that  social  gathering  by  a  warrior, 
bronzed  and  decorated,  lately  arrived  from  Algiers,  on  which 
arid  soil  he  had  achieved  many  laurels  and  the  rank  of  Col- 
onel. Finance  contributed  Duplessis.  Well  it  might;  for 
Duplessis  had  just  assisted  the  host  to  a  splendid  coup  at  the 
Bourse. 


304  THE  PARISIANS. 

"Ah,  cher  Monsieur  Savarin,"  says  Enguerrand  de  Vande- 
mar,  whose  patrician  blood  is  so  pure  from  revolutionary  taint 
that  he  is  always  instinctively  polite,  "what  a  masterpiece 
in  its  way  is  that  little  paper  of  yours  in  the  'Sens  Commun, ' 
upon  the  connection  between  the  national  character  and  the 
national  diet !  so  genuinely  witty !  —  for  wit  is  but  truth  made 
amusing." 

"You  flatter  me,"  replied  Savarin,  modestly;  "but  I  own  I 
do  think  there  is  a  smattering  of  philosophy  in  that  trifle. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  character  of  a  people  depends  more  on 
its  drinks  than  its  food.  The  wines  of  Italy,  heady,  irritable, 
ruinous  to  the  digestion,  contribute  to  the  character  which 
belongs  to  active  brains  and  disordered  livers.  The  Italians 
conceive  great  plans,  but  they  cannot  digest  them.  The  Eng- 
lish common-people  drink  beer,  and  the  beerish  character  is 
stolid,  rude,  but  stubborn  and  enduring.  The  English  mid- 
dle-class imbibe  port  and  sherry;  and  with  these  strong  po- 
tations their  ideas  become  obfuscated.  Their  character  has 
no  liveliness ;  amusement  is  not  one  of  their  wants ;  they  sit 
at  home  after  dinner  and  doze  away  the  fumes  of  their  bev- 
erage in  the  dulness  of  domesticity.  If  the  English  aristoc- 
racy are  more  vivacious  and  cosmopolitan,  it  is  thanks  to  the 
wines  of  France,  which  it  is  the  mode  with  them  to  prefer; 
but  still,  like  all  plagiarists,  they  are  imitators,  not  in- 
ventors; they  borrow  our  wines  and  copy  our  manners.  The 
Germans  —  " 

"  Insolent  barbarians !  "  growled  the  French  Colonel,  twirl- 
ing his  mustache ;  "  if  the  Emperor  were  not  in  his  dotage, 
their  Sadowa  would  ere  this  have  cost  them  their  Rhine." 

"The  Germans,"  resumed  Savarin,  unheeding  the  interrup- 
tion, "drink  acrid  wines,  varied  with  beer,  to  which  last 
their  commonalty  owes  a  quasi  resemblance  in  stupidity  and 
endurance  to  the  English  masses.  Acrid  wines  rot  the  teeth : 
Germans  are  afflicted  with  toothache  from  infancy.  All  peo- 
ple subject  to  toothache  are  sentimental.  Goethe  was  a  mar- 
tyr to  toothache.  "  Werther "  was  written  in  one  of  those 
paroxysms  which  predispose  genius  to  suicide.  But  the 
German  character  is  not  all  toothache;  beer  and  tobacco  step 


THE  PARISIANS.  305 

in  to  the  relief  of  Rhenish  acridities,  blend  philosophy  with 
sentiment,  and  give  that  patience  in  detail  which  distin- 
guishes their  professors  and  their  generals.  Besides,  the 
German  wines  in  themselves  have  other  qualities  than  that 
of  acridity.  Taken  with  sourkrout  and  stewed  prunes,  they 
produce  fumes  of  self-conceit.  A  German  has  little  of  French 
vanity;  he  has  German  self-esteem.  He  extends  the  esteem 
of  self  to  those  around  him;  his  home,  his  village,  his  city, 
his  country, —  all  belong  to  him.  It  is  a  duty  he  owes  to 
himself  to  defend  them.  Give  him  his  pipe  and  his  sabre, 
and,  Monsieur  le  Colonel,  believe  me,  you  will  never  take  the 
Rhine  from  him." 

"P-r-r,"  cried  the  Colonel;  "but  we  have  had  the  Rhine." 

"  We  did  not  keep  it.  And  I  should  not  say  I  had  a  franc- 
piece  if  I  borrowed  it  from  your  purse  and  had  to  give  it  back 
the  next  day." 

Here  there  arose  a  very  general  hubbub  of  voices,  all  raised 
against  M.  Savarin.  Enguerrand,  like  a  man  of  good  ton, 
hastened  to  change  the  conversation. 

"  Let  us  leave  these  poor  wretches  to  their  sour  wines  and 
toothaches.  We  drinkers  of  the  champagne,  all  our  own, 
have  only  pity  for  the  rest  of  the  human  race.  This  new 
journal  '  Le  Sens  Commun '  has  a  strange  title,  Monsieur 
Savarin." 

"Yes;  'Le  Sens  Commun'  is  not  common  in  Paris,  where 
we  all  have  too  much -genius  for  a  thing  so  vulgar." 

"Pray,"  said  the  young  painter,  "tell  me  what  you  mean 
by  the  title  'Le  Sens  Commun.'  It  is  mysterious." 

"True,"  said  Savarin;  "it  may  mean  the  Sensus  communis 
of  the  Latins,  or  the  Good  Sense  of  the  English.  The  Latin 
phrase  signifies  the  sense  of  the  common  interest;  the  Eng- 
lish phrase,  the  sense  which  persons  of  understanding  have 
in  common.  I  suppose  the  inventor  of  our  title  meant  the 
latter  signification." 

"And  who  was  the  inventor?"  asked  Bacourt. 

"  That  is  a  secret  which  I  do  not  know  myself, "  answered 
Savarin. 

"  I  guess, "  said  Enguerrand,  "  that  it  must  be  the  same  per- 
VOL.  i. —  20 


306  THE  PARISIANS. 

son  who  writes  the  political  leaders.  They  are  most  remark- 
able; for  they  are  so  unlike  the  articles  in  other  journals, 
whether  those  journals  be  the  best  or  the  worst.  For  my  own 
part,  I  trouble  my  head  very  little  about  politics,  and  shrug 
my  shoulders  at  essays  which  reduce  the  government  of  flesh 
and  blood  into  mathematical  problems.  But  these  articles 
seem  to  be  written  by  a  man  of  the  world,  and  as  a  man  of 
the  world  myself,  I  read  them." 

"But,"  said  the  Vicomte  de  Brez6,  who  piqued  himself  on 
the  polish  of  his  style,  "  they  are  certainly  not  the  composi- 
tion of  any  eminent  writer.  No  eloquence,  no  sentiment; 
though  I  ought  not  to  speak  disparagingly  of  a  fellow, 
contributor." 

"All  that  may  be  very  true,"  said  Savarin;  "but  M. 
Enguerrand  is  right.  The  papers  are  evidently  the  work  of 
a  man  of  the  world,  and  it  is  for  that  reason  that  they  have 
startled  the  public,  and  established  the  success  of  'Le  Sens 
Commun.'  But  wait  a  week  or  two  longer,  Messieurs,  and 
then  tell  me  what  you  think  of  a  new  roman  by  a  new  writer, 
which  we  shall  announce  in  our  impression  to-morrow.  I 
shall  be  disappointed,  indeed,  if  that  does  not  charm  you.  No 
lack  of  eloquence  and  sentiment  there." 

"I  am  rather  tired  of  eloquence  and  sentiment,"  said 
Enguerrand.  "  Your  editor,  Gustave  Rameau,  sickens  me  of 
them  with  his  'Starlit  Meditations  in  the  Streets  of  Paris,' 
morbid  imitations  of  Heine's  enigmatical  'Evening  Songs.' 
Your  journal  would  be  perfect  if  you  could  suppress  the 
editor." 

"Suppress  Gustave  Rameau!"  cried  Bernard,  the  painter; 
"  I  adore  his  poems,  full  of  heart  for  poor  suffering  humanity." 

"Suffering  humanity  so  far  as  it  is  packed  up  in  himself," 
said  the  physician,  dryly, —  "and  a  great  deal  of  the  suffering 
is  bile.  But  a  propos  of  your  new  journal,  Savarin,  there  is 
a  paragraph  in  it  to-day  which  excites  my  curiosity.  It  says 
that  the  Vicomte  de  Maul6on  has  arrived  in  Paris,  after  many 
years  of  foreign  travel ;  and  then,  referring  modestly  enough 
to  the  reputation  for  talent  which  he  had  acquired  in  early 
youth,  proceeds  to  indulge  in  a  prophecy  of  the  future  politi- 


THE  PARISIANS.  307 

cal  career  of  a  man  who,  if  he  have  a  grain  of  sens  commun, 
must  think  that  the  less  said  about  him  the  better.  I  remem- 
ber him  well ;  a  terrible  mauvais  sujet,  but  superbly  handsome. 
There  was  a  shocking  story  about  the  jewels  of  a  foreign 
duchess,  which  obliged  him  to  leave  Paris." 

"But,"  said  Savarin,  "the  paragraph  you  refer  to  hints 
that  that  story  is  a  groundless  calumny,  and  that  the  true 
reason  for  De  Maule"on's  voluntary  self -exile  was  a  very  com- 
mon one  among  young  Parisians, —  he  had  lavished  away  his 
fortune.  He  returns,  when,  either  by  heritage  or  his  own 
exertions,  he  has  secured  elsewhere  a  competence." 

"Nevertheless  I  cannot  think  that  society  will  receive 
him,"  said  Bacourt.  "When  he  left  Paris,  there  was  one 
joyous  sigh  of  relief  among  all  men  who  wished  to  avoid 
duels,  and  keep  their  wives  out  of  temptation.  Society  may 
welcome  back  a  lost  sheep,  but  not  a  reinvigorated  wolf." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mon  cher, "  said  Enguerrand ;  "  society 
has  already  opened  its  fold  to  this  poor  ill-treated  wolf.  Two 
days  ago  Louvier  summoned  to  his  house  the  surviving  rela- 
tions or  connections  of  De  Mauleon —  among  whom  are  the 
Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  the  Counts  de  Passy,  De  Beauvilliers, 
De  Chavigny,  my  father,  and  of  course  his  two  sons — and 
submitted  to  us  the  proofs  which  completely  clear  the  Yi- 
comte  de  Mauleon  of  even  a  suspicion  of  fraud  or  dishonour 
in  the  affair  of  the  jewels.  The  proofs  include  the  written 
attestation  of  the  Duke  himself,  and  letters  from  that  noble- 
man after  De  Maule"on's  disappearance  from  Paris,  expres- 
sive of  great  esteem,  and  indeed,  of  great  admiration,  for 
the  Vicomte's  sense  of  honour  and  generosity  of  character. 
The  result  of  this  family  council  was  that  we  all  went  in 
a  body  to  call  on  De  Maul6on ;  and  he  dined  with  my  father 
that  same  day.  You  know  enough  of  the  Comte  de  Yande- 
mar,  and,  I  may  add,  of  my  mother,  to  be  sure  that  they 
are  both,  in  their  several  ways,  too  regardful  of  social  con- 
ventions to  lend  their  countenance  even  to  a  relation  with- 
out well  weighing  the  pros  and  cons.  And  as  for  Eaoul, 
Bayard  himself  could  not  be  a  greater  stickler  on  the  point 
of  honour." 


308  THE  PARISIANS. 

This  declaration  was  followed  by  a  silence  that  had  the 
character  of  stupor. 

At  last  Duplessis  said,  "  But  what  has  Louvier  to  do  in  this 
galere  ?  Louvier  is  no  relation  of  that  well-born  vaurien  ; 
why  should  he  summon  your  family  council?" 

"Louvier  excused  his  interference  on  the  ground  of  early 
and  intimate  friendship  with  De  Mauleon,  who,  he  said, 
came  to  consult  him  on  arriving  at  Paris,  and  who  felt 
too  proud  or  too  timid  to  address  relations  with  whom 
he  had  long  dropped  all  intercourse.  An  intermediary 
was  required,  and  Louvier  volunteered  to  take  that  part 
on  himself;  nothing  more  natural  nor  more  simple.  By  the 
way,  Alain,  you  dine  with  Louvier  to-morrow,  do  you  not? 
—  a  dinner  in  honour  of  our  rehabilitated  kinsman.  I  and 
Kaoul  go." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  charmed  to  meet  again  a  man  who,  what- 
ever might  be  his  errors  in  youth,  on  which,"  added  Alain, 
slightly  colouring,  "it  certainly  does  not  become  me  to  be 
severe,  must  have  suffered  the  most  poignant  anguish  a  man 
of  honour  can  undergo, — namely,  honour  suspected;  and  who 
now,  whether  by  years  or  sorrow,  is  so  changed  that  I  cannot 
recognize  a  likeness  to  the  character  I  have  just  heard  given 
to  him  as  mauvais  sujet  and  vaurien." 

"  Bravo  !  "  cried  Enguerrand ;  "  all  honour  to  courage !  — 
and  at  Paris  it  requires  great  courage  to  defend  the  absent." 

"Nay,"  answered  Alain,  in  a  low  voice.  "The  gentil- 
homme  who  will  not  defend  another  gentilhomme  traduced, 
would,  as  a  soldier,  betray  a  citadel  and  desert  a  flag." 

"You  say  M.  de  Maul6on  is  changed,"  said  De  Bre'ze'; 
"yes,  he  must  be  growing  old.  No  trace  left  of  his  good 
looks?" 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Enguerrand;  "he  is  Men  conserve,  and 
has  still  a  very  handsome  head  and  an  imposing  presence. 
But  one  cannot  help  doubting  whether  he  deserved  the  for- 
midable reputation  he  acquired  in  youth;  his  manner  is  so 
singularly  mild 'and  gentle,  his  conversation  so  winningly 
modest,  so  void  of  pretence,  and  his  mode  of  life  is  as  sim- 
ple as  that  of  a  Spanish  hidalgo." 


THE  PARISIANS.  309 

"He  does  not,  then,  affect  the  role  of  Monte  Cristo,"  said 
Duplessis,  "and  buy  himself  into  notice  like  that  hero  of 
romance?" 

"  Certainly  not :  he  says  very  frankly  that  he  has  but  a  very 
small  income,  but  more  than  enough  for  his  wants,  —  richer 
than  in  his  youth,  for  he  has  learned  content.  We  may 
dismiss  the  hint  in  'Le  Sens  Commun'  about  his  future 
political  career, —  at  least  he  evinces  no  such  ambition." 

"How  could  he  as  a  Legitimist?"  said  Alain,  bitterly. 
"What  department  would  elect  him?" 

"But  is  he  a  Legitimist?"  asked  De  Br&ze*. 

"I  take  it  for  granted  that  he  must  be  that,"  answered 
Alain,  haughtily,  "for  he  is  a  De  Maule'on." 

"  His  father  was  as  good  a  De  Mauleon  as  himself,  I  pre- 
sume," rejoined  De  Br6ze,  dryly;  "and  he  enjoyed  a  place  at 
the  Court  of  Louis  Philippe,  which  a  Legitimist  could  scarcely 
accept.  Victor  did  not,  I  fancy,  trouble  his  head  about  pol- 
itics at  all,  at  the  time  I  remember  him ;  but  to  judge  by  his 
chief  associates,  and  the  notice  he  received  from  the  Princes 
of  the  House  of  Orleans,  I  should  guess  that  he  had  no 
predilections  in  favour  of  Henri  V." 

"I  should  regret  to  think  so,"  said  Alain,  yet  more  haugh- 
tily, "  since  the  De  Mauleons  acknowledge  the  head  of  their 
house  in  the  representative  of  the  Rochebriants." 

"At  all  events,"  said  Duplessis,  "M.  de  Maule'on  appears 
to  be  a  philosopher  of  rare  stamp.  A  Parisian  who  has 
known  riches  and  is  contented  to  be  poor  is  a  phenomenon  I 
should  like  to  study." 

"You  have  that  chance  to-morrow  evening,  Monsieur 
Duplessis,"  said  Enguerrand. 

"What!  at  M.  Louvier's  dinner?  Nay,  I  have  no  other 
acquaintance  with  M.  Louvier  than  that  of  the  Bourse,  and 
the  acquaintance  is  not  cordial." 

"I  did  not  mean  at  M.  Louvier's  dinner,  but  at  the  Du- 
chesse  de  Tarascon's  ball.  You,  as  one  of  her  special 
favourites,  will  doubtless  honour  her  reunion." 

"Yes;  I  have  promised  my  daughter  to  go  to  the  ball.  But 
the  Duchesse  is  Imperialist.  M.  de  Maule'on  seems  to  be 


310  THE  PARISIANS. 

either  a  Legitimist,  according  to  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  or  an 
Orleanist,  according  to  our  friend  De  Bre'ze'." 

"What  of  that?  Can  there  be  a  more  loyal  Bourbonite 
than  De  Rochebriant? —  and  he  goes  to  the  ball.  It  is  given 
out  of  the  season,  in  celebration  of  a  family  marriage.  And 
the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  is  connected  with  Alain,  and 
therefore  with  De  Maule"on,  though  but  distantly." 

"Ah!  excuse  my  ignorance  of  genealogy." 

"  As  if  the  genealogy  of  noble  names  were  not  the  history 
of  France,"  muttered  Alain,  indignantly. 


CHAPTER  II. 

YES,  the  "Sens  Commun"  was  a  success:  it  had  made  a 
sensation  at  starting;  the  sensation  was  on  the  increase.  It 
is  difficult  for  an  Englishman  to  comprehend  the  full  influence 
of  a  successful  journal  at  Paris ;  the  station  —  political,  liter- 
ary, social  —  which  it  confers  on  the  contributors  who  effect 
the  success.  M.  Lebeau  had  shown  much  more  sagacity  in 
selecting  Gustave  Eameau  for  the  nominal  editor  than  Savarin 
supposed  or  my  reader  might  detect.  In  the  first  place, 
Gustave  himself,  with  all  his  defects  of  information  and  solid- 
ity of  intellect,  was  not  without  real  genius, —  and  a  sort  of 
genius  that  when  kept  in  restraint,  and  its  field  confined  to 
sentiment  or  sarcasm,  was  in  unison  with  the  temper  of  the 
day ;  in  the  second  place,  it  was  only  through  Gustave  that 
Lebeau  could  have  got  at  Savarin,  and  the  names  which  that 
brilliant  writer  had  secured  at  the  outset  would  have  sufficed 
to  draw  attention  to  the  earliest  numbers  of  the  "  Sens  Com- 
mun, "  despite  a  title  which  did  not  seem  alluring.  But  these 
names  alone  could  not  have  sufficed  to  circulate  the  new  jour- 
nal to  the  extent  it  had  already  reached.  This  was  due  to 
the  curiosity  excited  by  leading  articles  of  a  style  new  to  the 
Parisian  public,  and  of  which  the  authorship  defied  conject- 


THE  PARISIANS.  311 

lire.  They  were  signed  Pierre  Firmin, —  supposed  to  be  a 
nom  de  plume,  as,  that  name  was  utterly  unknown  in  the 
world  of  letters.  They  affected  the  tone  of  an  impartial  ob- 
server; they  neither  espoused  nor  attacked  any  particular 
party ;  they  laid  down  no  abstract  doctrines  of  government. 
But  somehow  or  other,  in  language  terse  yet  familiar,  some- 
times careless  yet  never  vulgar,  they  expressed  a  prevailing 
sentiment  of  uneasy  discontent,  a  foreboding  of  some  destined 
change  in  things  established,  without  defining  the  nature  of 
such  change,  without  saying  whether  it  would  be  for  good  or 
for  evil.  In  his  criticisms  upon  individuals,  the  writer  was 
guarded  and  moderate  —  the  keenest-eyed  censor  of  the  press 
could  not  have  found  a  pretext  for  interference  with  expres- 
sion of  opinions  so  polite.  Of  the  Emperor  these  articles 
spoke  little,  but  that  little  was  not  disrespectful;  yet,  day 
after  day,  the  articles  contributed  to  sap  the  Empire.  All 
malcontents  of  every  shade  comprehended,  as  by  a  secret  of 
freemasonry,  that  in  this  journal  they  had  an  ally.  Against 
religion  not  a  word  was  uttered,  yet  the  enemies  of  religion 
bought  that  journal;  still,  the  friends  of  religion  bought  it 
too,  for  those  articles  treated  with  irony  the  philosophers  on 
paper  who  thought  that  their  contradictory  crotchets  could 
fuse  themselves  into  any  single  Utopia,  or  that  any  social 
edifice,  hurriedly  run  up  by  the  crazy  few,  could  become  a 
permanent  habitation  for  the  turbulent  many,  without  the 
clamps  of  a  creed. 

The  tone  of  these  articles  always  corresponded  with  the 
title  of  the  journal, —  "  Common-sense."  It  was  to  common- 
sense  that  it  appealed, — appealed  in  the  utterance  of  a  man 
who  disdained  the  subtle  theories,  the  vehement  declamation, 
the  credulous  beliefs,  or  the  inflated  bombast,  which  consti- 
tute so  large  a  portion  of  the  Parisian  press.  The  articles 
rather  resembled  certain  organs  of  the  English  press,  which 
profess  to  be  blinded  by  no  enthusiasm  for  anybody  or  any- 
thing, which  find  their  sale  in  that  sympathy  with  ill-nature 
to  which  Huet  ascribes  the  popularity  of  Tacitus,  and,  always 
quietly  undermining  institutions  with  a  covert  sneer,  never 
pretend  to  a  spirit  of  imagination  so  at  variance  with  common- 


312  THE  PARISIANS. 

sense  as  a  conjecture  how  the  institutions  should  be  rebuilt 
or  replaced. 

Well,  somehow  or  other  the  journal,  as  I  was  saying,  hit 
the  taste  of  the  Parisian  public.  It  intimated,  with  the  easy 
grace  of  an  unpremeditated  agreeable  talker,  that  French  so- 
ciety in  all  its  classes  was  rotten ;  and  each  class  was  willing 
to  believe  that  all  the  others  were  rotten,  and  agreed  that 
unless  the  others  were  reformed,  there  was  something  very 
unsound  in  itself. 

The  ball  at  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon's  was  a  brilliant 
event.  The  summer  was  far  advanced;  many  of  the  Parisian 
holiday-makers  had  returned  to  the  capital,  but  the  season 
had  not  commenced,  and  a  ball  at  that  time  of  year  was  a  very 
unwonted  event.  But  there  was  a  special  occasion  for  this 
fete, — a  marriage  between  a  niece  of  the  Duehesse  and  the 
son  of  a  great  official  in  high  favour  at  the  Imperial  Court. 

The  dinner  at  Louvier's  broke  up  early,  and  the  music  for 
the  second  waltz  was  sounding  when  Enguerrand,  Alain,  and 
the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  ascended  the  stairs.  Kaoul  did  not 
accompany  them;  he  went  very  rarely  to  any  balls,  — never  to 
one  given  by  an  Imperialist,  however  nearly  related  to  him 
the  Imperialist  might  be.  But  in  the  sweet  indulgence  of  his 
good-nature,  he  had  no  blame  for  those  who  did  go, — not  for 
Enguerrand,  still  less,  of  course,  for  Alain. 

Something  too  might  well  here  be  said  as  to  his  feeling  to- 
wards Victor  de  Mauleon.  He  had  joined  in  the  family  ac- 
quittal of  that  kinsman  as  to  the  grave  charge  of  the  jewels ; 
the  proofs  of  innocence  thereon  seemed  to  him  unequivocal 
and  decisive,  therefore  he  had  called  on  the  Vicomte  and 
acquiesced  in  all  formal  civilities  shown  to  him.  But  such 
acts  of  justice  to  a  fellow-gentilhomme  and  a  kinsman  duly 
performed,  he  desired  to  see  as  little  as  possible  of  the  Vi- 
comte de  Mauleon.  He  reasoned  thus:  "Of  every  charge 
which  society  made  against  this  man  he  is  guiltless;  but  of 
all  the  claims  to  admiration  which  society  accorded  to  him 
before  it  erroneously  condemned,  there  are  none  which  make 
me  covet  his  friendship,  or  suffice  to  dispel  doubts  as  to  what 
he  may  be  when  society  once  more  receives  him.  And  the 


THE  PARISIANS.  313 

man  is  so  captivating  that  I  should  dread  his  influence  over 
myself  did  I  see  much  of  him." 

Kaoul  kept  his  reasonings  to  himself,  for  he  had  that  sort 
of  charity  which  indisposes  an  amiable  man  to  be  severe  on 
bygone  offences.  In  the  eyes  of  Enguerrand  and  Alain,  and 
such  young  votaries  of  the  mode  as  they  could  influence, 
Victor  de  Mauleon  assumed  almost  heroic  proportions.  In 
the  affair  which  had  inflicted  on  him  a  calumny  so  odious,  it 
was  clear  that  he  had  acted  with  chivalrous  delicacy  of 
honour.  And  the  tvirbulence  and  recklessness  of  his  earlier 
years,  redeemed  as  they  were,  in  the  traditions  of  his  con- 
temporaries, by  courage  and  generosity,  were  not  offences  to 
which  young  Frenchmen  are  inclined  -to  be  harsh.  All  ques- 
tion as  to  the  mode  in  which  his  life  might  have  been  passed 
during  his  long  absence  from  the  capital  was  merged  in  the 
respect  due  to  the  only  facts  known,  and  these  were  clearly 
proved  in  his  pieces  justificatives :  First,  that  he  had  served 
under  another  name  in  the  ranks  of  the  army  in  Algiers ;  had 
distinguished  himself  there  for  signal  valour,  and  received, 
with  promotion,  the  decoration  of  the  cross.  His  real  name 
was  known  only  to  his  colonel,  and  on  quitting  the  service, 
the  colonel  placed  in  his  hands  a  letter  of  warm  eulogy  on  his 
conduct,  and  identifying  him  as  Victor  de  Mauleon.  Sec- 
ondly, that  in  California  he  had  saved  a  wealthy  family  from 
midnight  murder,  fighting  single-handed  against  and  over- 
mastering three  ruffians,  and  declining  all  other  reward  from 
those  he  had  preserved  than  a  written  attestation  of  their 
gratitude.  In  all  countries,  valour  ranks  high  in  the  list  of 
virtues ;  in  no  country  does  it  so  absolve  from  vices  as  it  does 
in  France. 

But  as  yet  Victor  de  Maule'on's  vindication  was  only  known 
by  a  few,  and  those  belonging  to  the  gayer  circles  of  life. 
How  he  might  be  judged  by  the  sober  middle  class,  which 
constitutes  the  most  important  section  of  public  opinion  to  a 
candidate  for  political  trusts  and  distinctions,  was  another 
question. 

The  Duchesse  stood  at  the  door  to  receive  her  visitors. 
Duplessis  was  seated  near  the  entrance,  by  the  side  of  a  dis- 


314  THE  PARISIANS. 

tinguished  member  of  the  Imperial  Government,  with  whom 
he  was  carrying  on  a  whispered  conversation.  The  eye  of 
the  financier,  however,  turned  towards  the  doorway  as  Alain 
and  Enguerrand  entered,  and  passing  over  their  familiar 
faces,  fixed  itself  attentively  on  that  of  a  much  older  man 
whom  Enguerrand  was  presenting  to  the  Duchesse,  and  in 
whom  Duplessis  rightly  divined  the  Vicomte  de  Mauluon. 
Certainly  if  no  one  could  have  recognized  M.  Lebeau  in  the 
stately  personage  who  had  visited  Louvier,  still  less  could  one 
who  had  heard  of  the  wild  feats  of  the  roi  des  viveurs  in  his 
youth  reconcile  belief  in  such  tales  with  the  quiet  modesty  of 
mien  which  distinguished  the  cavalier  now  replying,  with 
bended  head  and  subdued  accents,  to  the  courteous  welcome 
of  the  brilliant  hostess.  But  for  such  difference  in  attributes 
between  the  past  and  the  present  De  Mauleon,  Duplessis  had 
been  prepared  by  the  conversation  at  the  Maison  Doree. 
And  now,  as  the  Vicomte,  yielding  his  place  by  the  Duchesse 
to  some  new-comer,  glided  on,  and,  leaning  against  a  column, 
contemplated  the  gay  scene  before  him  with  that  expression 
of  countenance,  half  sarcastic,  half  mournful,  with  which  men 
regard,  after  long  estrangement,  the  scenes  of  departed  joys, 
Duplessis  felt  that  no  change  in  that  man  had  impaired  the 
force  of  character  which  had  made  him  the  hero  of  reckless 
coevals.  Though  wearing  no  beard,  not  even  a  mustache, 
there  was  something  emphatically  masculine  in  the  contour 
of  the  close-shaven  cheek  and  resolute  jaw;  in  a  forehead 
broad  at  the  temples,  and  protuberant  in  those  organs  over 
the  eyebrows  which  are  said  to  be  significant  of  quick  percep- 
tion and  ready  action;  in  the  lips,  when  in  repose  compressed, 
perhaps  somewhat  stern  in  their  expression,  but  pliant  and 
mobile  when  speaking,  and  wonderfully  fascinating  when  they 
smiled.  Altogether,  about  this  Victor  de  Mauleon  there  was 
a  nameless  distinction,  aparb  from  that  of  conventional  ele- 
gance. You  would  have  said,  "That  is  a  man  of  some 
marked  individuality,  an  eminence  of  some  kind  in  himself." 
You  would  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  he  was  a  party- 
leader,  a  skilled  diplomatist,  a  daring  soldier,  an  adventurous 


THE  PARISIANS.  315 

traveller;  but  you  would  not  guess  him  to  be  a  student,  an 
author,  an  artist. 

While  Duplessis  thus  observed  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon, 
all  the  while  seeming  to  lend  an  attentive  ear  to  the  whis- 
pered voice  of  the  Minister  by  his  side,  Alain  passed  on  into 
the  ball-room.  He  was  fresh  enough  to  feel  the  exhilara- 
tion of  the  dance.  Enguerrand  (who  had  survived  that  ex- 
citement, and  who  habitually  deserted  any  assembly  at  an 
early  hour  for  the  cigar  and  whist  of  his  club)  had  made  his 
way  to  De  Mauleon,  and  there  stationed  himself.  The  lion 
of  one  generation  has  always  a  mixed  feeling  of  curiosity 
and  respect  for  the  lion  of  a  generation  before  him,  and  the 
young  Vandemar  had  conceived  a  strong  and  almost  an  affec- 
tionate interest  in  this  discrowned  king  of  that  realm  in  fash- 
ion which,  once  lost,  is  never  to  be  regained;  for  it  is  only 
Youth  that  can  hold  its  sceptre  and  command  its  subjects. 

"In  this  crowd,  Vicomte,"  said  Enguerrand,  "there  must 
be  many  old  acquaintances  of  yours?" 

"Perhaps  so,  but  as  yet  I  have  only  seen  new  faces." 

As  he  thus  spoke,  a  middle-aged  man,  decorated  with  the 
grand  cross  of  the  Legion  and  half-a-dozen  foreign  orders, 
lending  his  arm  to  a  lady  of  the  same  age  radiant  in  dia- 
monds, passed  by  towards  the  ball-room,  and  in  some  sudden 
swerve  of  his  person,  occasioned  by  a  pause  of  his  companion  to 
adjust  her  train,  he  accidentally  brushed  against  De  Maule*on, 
whom  he  had  not  before  noticed.  Turning  round  to  apologize 
for  his  awkwardness,  he  encountered  the  full  gaze  of  the 
Vicomte,  started,  changed  countenance,  and  hurried  on  his 
companion. 

"Do  you  not  recognize  his  Excellency?"  said  Enguerrand, 
smiling.  "His  cannot  be  a  new  face  to  you." 

"Is  it  the  Baron  de  Lacy?"  asked  De  Mauleon. 

"The  Baron  de  Lacy,  now  Comte  d'Epinay,  ambassador  at 

the  Court  of ,  and,  if  report  speak  true,  likely  soon  to 

exchange  that  post  for  the  porte  feuille  of  Minister." 

"  He  has  got  on  in  life  since  I  saw  him  last,  the  little  Baron. 
He  was  then  my  devoted  imitator,  and  I  was  not  proud  of  the 
imitation." 


316  THE  PARISIANS. 

"  He  has  got  on  by  always  clinging  to  the  skirts  of  some 
one  stronger  than  himself,  —  to  yours,  I  dare  say,  when,  being 
a  parvenu  despite  his  usurped  title  of  baron,  he  aspired  to  the 
entree  into  clubs  and  salons.  The  entree  thus  obtained,  the 
rest  followed  easily;  he  became  a  millionnaire  through  a 
wife's  dot,  and  an  ambassador  through  the  wife's  lover,  who 
is  a  power  in  the  State." 

"  But  he  must  have  substance  in  himself.  Empty  bags  can- 
not be  made  to  stand  upright.  Ah!  unless  I  mistake,  I  see 
some  one  I  knew  better.  Yon  pale,  thin  man,  also  with  the 
grand  cross  —  surely  that  is  Alfred  Hennequin.  Is  he  too  a 
decorated  Imperialist?  I  left  him  a  socialistic  Republican." 

"But,  I  presume,  even  then  an  eloquent  avocat.  He  got 
into  the  Chamber,  spoke  well,  defended  the  coup-d'etat.  He 
has  just  been  made  Prefet  of  the  great  department  of  the 

,  a  popular  appointment.  He  bears  a  high  character. 

Pray  renew  your  acquaintance  with  him;  he  is  coming  this 
way." 

"  Will  so  grave  a  dignitary  renew  acquaintance  with  me?  I 
doubt  it." 

But  as  De  Mauleon  said  this,  he  moved  from  the  column, 
and  advanced  towards  the  Pr&fet.  Enguerrand  followed  him, 
and  saw  the  Vicomte  extend  his  hand  to  his  old  acquaintance. 

The  Prefet  stared,  and  said,  with  frigid  courtesy,  "  Pardon 
me, —  some  mistake." 

"Allow  me,  Monsieur  Hennequin,"  said  Enguerrand,  inter- 
posing, and  wishing  good-naturedly  to  save  De  Mauleon  the 
awkwardness  of  introducing  himself, —  "allow  me  to  re-intro- 
duce you  to  my  kinsman,  whom  the  lapse  of  years  may  well 
excuse  you  for  forgetting,  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon." 

Still  the  Prefet  did  not  accept  the  hand.  He  bowed  with 
formal  ceremony,  said,  "  I  was  not  aware  that  Monsieur  le 
Vicomte  had  returned  to  Paris,"  and  moving  to  the  doorway, 
made  his  salutation  to  the  hostess  and  disappeared. 

"  The  insolent !  "  muttered  Enguerrand. 

"Hush!"  said  De  Mauleon,  quietly,  "lean  fight  no  more 
duels,  —  especially  with  a  Prefet.  But  I  own  I  am  weak 
enough  to  feel  hurt  at  such  a  reception  from  Hennequin,  for 


THE  -PARISIANS.  317 

he  owed  me  some  obligations, —  small,  perhaps,  but  still  they 
were  such  as  might  have  made  me  select  him,  rather  than 
Louvier,  as  the  vindicator  of  my  name,  had  I  known  him  to 
be  so  high  placed.  But  a  man  who  has  raised  himself  into 
an  authority  may  well  be  excused  for  forgetting  a  friend 
whose  character  needs  defence.  I  forgive  him." 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  Vicomte's  tone  which 
touched  Enguerrand's  warm  if  light  heart.  But  De  Mauleon 
did  not  allow  him  time  to  answer.  He  went  on  quickly 
through  an  opening  in  the  gay  crowd,  which  immediately 
closed  behind  him,  and  Euguerrand  saw  him  no  more  that 
evening. 

Duplessis  ere  this  had  quitted  his  seat  by  the  Minister, 
drawn  thence  by  a  young  and  very  pretty  girl  resigned  to  his 
charge  by  a  cavalier  with  whom  she  had  been  dancing.  She 
was  the  only  daughter  of  Duplessis,  and  he  valued  her  even 
more  than  the  millions  he  had  made  at  the  Bourse.  "The 
Princess, "  she  said,  "  has  been  swept  off  in  the  train  of  some 
German  Royalty;  so,  petit  pere,  I  must  impose  myself  on 
thee." 

The  Princess,  a  Kussian  of  high  rank,  was  the  chaperon 
that  evening  of  Mademoiselle  Valerie  Duplessis. 

"And  I  suppose  I  must  take  thee  back  into  the  ball- 
room," said  the  financier,  smiling  proudly,  "and  find  thee 
partners." 

"I  don't  want  your  aid  for  that,  Monsieur;  except  this 
quadrille,  my  list -is  pretty  well  filled  up." 

"  And  I  hope  the  partners  will  be  pleasant.  Let  me  know 
who  they  are,"  he  whispered,  as  they  threaded  their  way  into 
the  ball-room. 

The  girl  glanced  at  her  tablet. 

"Well,  the  first  on  the  list  is  milord  somebody,  with  an 
unpronounceable  English  name." 

"Beau  cavalier?" 

"No;  ugly,  old  too;  thirty  at  least." 

Duplessis  felt  relieved.  He  did  not  wish  his  daughter  to 
fall  in  love  with  an  Englishman. 

"  And  the  next?  " 


318  THE  PARISIANS. 

"The  next?  "  she  said  hesitatingly,  and  he  observed  that  a 
soft  blush  accompanied  the  hesitation. 

"  Yes,  the  next.     Not  English  too?  " 

"Oh,  no;  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant." 

"Ah!  who  presented  him  to  thee?" 

"Thy  friend,  petit pere,  M.  de  Breze." 

Duplessis  again  glanced  at  his  daughter's  face;  it  was  bent 
over  her  bouquet. 

"Is  he  ugly  also?" 

"  Ugly !  "  exclaimed  the  girl,  indignantly ;  "  why,  he  is  —  " 
she  checked  herself  and  turned  away  her  head. 

Duplessis  became  thoughtful.  He  was  glad  that  he  had 
accompanied  his  child  into  the  ball-room ;  he  would  stay  there, 
and  keep  watch  on  her  and  Rochebriant  also. 

Up  to  that  moment  he  had  felt  a  dislike  to  Rochebriant. 
That  young  noble's  too  obvious  pride  of  race  had  nettled  him, 
not  the  less  that  the  financier  himself  was  vain  of  his  ances- 
try. Perhaps  he  still  disliked  Alain,  but  the  dislike  was 
now  accompanied  with  a  certain,  not  hostile,  interest ;  and  if 
he  became  connected  with  the  race,  the  pride  in  it  might  grow 
contagious. 

They  had  not  been  long  in  the  ball-room  before  Alain 
came  up  to  claim  his  promised  partner.  In  saluting  Duplessis, 
his  manner  was  the  same  as  usual,  not  more  cordial,  not  less 
ceremoniously  distant.  A  man  so  able  as  the  financier  cannot 
be  without  quick  knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 

"  If  disposed  to  fall  in  love  with  Valerie,"  thought  Duplessis, 
"he  would  have  taken  more  pains  to  please  her  father.  Well, 
thank  heaven,  there  are  better  matches  to  be  found  for 
her  than  a  noble  without  fortune  and  a  Legitimist  without 
career." 

In  fact,  Alain  felt  no  more  for  Valerie  than  for  any  other 
pretty  girl  in  the  room.  In  talking  with  the  Vicomte  de 
Brez6  in  the  intervals  of  the  dance,  he  had  made  some  pass- 
ing remark  on  her  beauty.  De  Brez^  had  said,  "Yes,  she  is 
charming;  I  will  present  you,"  and  hastened  to  do  so  before 
Rochebriant  even  learned  her  name.  So  introduced,  he  could 
but  invite  her  to  give  him  her  first  disengaged  dance,  and 


THE  PARISIANS.  319 

when  that  was  fixed,  he  had  retired,  without  entering  into 
conversation. 

Now,  as  they  took  their  places  in  the  quadrille,  he  felt  that 
effort  of  speech  had  become  a  duty,  if  not  a  pleasure ;  and  of 
course,  he  began  with  the  first  commonplace  which  presented 
itself  to  his  mind. 

"Do  you  not  think  it  a  very  pleasant  ball,  Mademoiselle?" 

"Yes,"  dropped,  in  almost  inaudible  reply,  from  Valerie's 
rosy  lips. 

"And  not  over-crowded,  as  most  balls  are?" 

Valerie's  lips  again  moved,  but  this  time  quite  inaudibly. 

The  obligations  of  the  figure  now  caused  a  pause.  Alain 
racked  his  brains  and  began, — 

"They  tell  me  the  last  season  was  more  than  usually  gay; 
of  that  I  cannot  judge,  for  it  was  well-nigh  over  when  I  came 
to  Paris  for  the  first  time." 

Valerie  looked  up  with  a  more  animated  expression  than 
her  childlike  face  had  yet  shown,  and  said,  this  time  dis- 
tinctly, "This  is  my  first  ball,  Monsieur  le  Marquis." 

"One  has  only  to  look  at  Mademoiselle  to  divine  that  fact," 
replied  Alain,  gallantly. 

Again  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  dance ;  but 
the  ice  between  the  two  was  now  broken;  and  when  the  qua- 
drille was  concluded,  and  Kochebriant  led  the  fair  Valerie 
back  to  her  father's  side,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  listening 
to  the  music  of  the  spheres,  and  that  the  music  had  now  sud- 
denly stopped.  Alain,  alas  for  her!  was  under  no  such  pleas- 
ing illusion.  Her  talk  had  seemed  to  him  artless  indeed,  but 
very  insipid,  compared  with  the  brilliant  conversation  of  the 
wedded  Parisiennes  with  whom  he  more  habitually  danced; 
and  it  was  with  rather  a  sensation  of  relief  that  he  made  his 
parting  bow,  and  receded  into  the  crowd  of  bystanders. 

Meanwhile  De  Mauleon  had  quitted  the  assemblage,  walk- 
ing slowly  through  the  deserted  streets  towards  his  apartment. 
The  civilities  he  had  met  at  Louvier's  dinner-party,  and  the 
marked  distinction  paid  to  him  by  kinsmen  of  rank  and  posi- 
tion so  unequivocal  as  Alain  and  Enguerrand,  had  softened 
his  mood  and  cheered  his  spirits.  He  had  begun  to  question 


320  THE  PARISIANS. 

himself  whether  a  fair  opening  to  his  political  ambition  was 
really  forbidden  to  him  under  the  existent  order  of  things, 
whether  it  necessitated  the  employment  of  such  dangerous 
tools  as  those  to  which  anger  and  despair  had  reconciled  his 
intellect.  But  the  pointed  way  in  which  he  had  been  shunned 
or  slighted  by  the  two  men  who  belonged  to  political  life  — 
two  men  who  in  youth  had  looked  up  to  himself,  and  whose 
dazzling  career  of  honours  was  identified  with  the  Imperial 
system  —  reanimated  his  fiercer  passions  and  his  more  peril- 
ous designs.  The  frigid  accost  of  Hennequin  more  especially 
galled  him ;  it  wounded  not  only  his  pride  but  his  heart ;  it 
had  the  venom  of  ingratitude,  and  it  is  the  peculiar  privilege 
of  ingratitude  to  wound  hearts  that  have  learned  to  harden 
themselves  to  the  hate  or  contempt  of  men  to  whom  no  ser- 
vices have  been  rendered.  In  some  private  affair  concerning 
his  property,  De  Mauleon  had  had  occasion  to  consult 
Hennequin,  then  a  rising  young  avocat.  Out  of  that  consul- 
tation a  friendship  had  sprung  up,  despite  the  differing  habits 
and  social  grades  of  the  two  men.  One  day,  calling  on 
Hennequin,  he  found  him  in  a  state  of  great  nervous  excite- 
ment. The  avocat  had  received  a  public  insult  in  the  salon 
of  a  noble,  to  whom  De  Mauleon  had  introduced  him,  from  a 
man  who  pretended  to  the  hand  of  a  young  lady  to  whom 
Hennequin  was  attached,  and  indeed  almost  affianced.  The 
man  was  a  notorious  spadassin, —  a  duellist  little  less  re- 
nowned for  skill  in  all  weapons  than  De  Mauleon  himself. 
The  affair  had  been  such  that  Hennequin' s  friends  assured 
him  he  had  no  choice  but  to  challenge  this  bravo.  Hennequin, 
brave  enough  at  the  bar,  was  no  hero  before  sword-point  or 
pistol.  He  was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  use  of  either  weapon; 
his  death  in  the  encounter  with  an  antagonist  so  formidable 
seemed  to  him  certain,  and  life  was  so  precious, —  an  honour- 
able and  distinguished  career  opening  before  him,  marriage 
with  the  woman  he  loved.  Still  he  had  the  Frenchman's 
point  of  honour.  He  had  been  told  that  he  must  fight;  well, 
then,  he  must.  He  asked  De  Mauleon  to  be  one  of  his  sec- 
onds, and  in  asking  him,  sank  in  his  chair,  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 


THE  PARISIANS.  321 

"Wait  till  to-morrow,"  said  De  Mauleon;  "take  no  step 
till  then.  Meanwhile,  you  are  in  my  hands,  and  I  answer  for 
your  honour." 

On  leaving  Hennequin,  Victor  sought  the  spadassin  at  the 
club  of  which  they  were  both  members,  and  contrived,  with- 
out reference  to  Hennequin,  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  him.  A 
challenge  ensued;  a  duel  with  swords  took  place  the  next 
morning.  De  Mauleon  disarmed  and  wounded  his  antagonist, 
not  gravely,  but  sufficiently  to  terminate  the  encounter.  He 
assisted  to  convey  the  wounded  man  to  his  apartment,  and 
planted  himself  by  his  bedside,  as  if  he  were  a  friend. 

"Why  on  earth  did  you  fasten  a  quarrel  on  me?  "  asked  the 
spadassin  ;  "  and  why,  having  done  so,  did  you  spare  my  life ; 
for  your  sword  was  at  my  heart  when  you  shifted  its  point, 
and  pierced  my  shoulder?" 

"I  will  tell  you,  and  in  so  doing,  beg  you  to  accept  my 
friendship  hereafter,  on  one  condition.  In  the  course  of  the 
day,  write  or  dictate  a  few  civil  words  of  apology  to  M. 
Hennequin.  Ma  foi  !  every  one  will  praise  you  for  a  gener- 
osity so  becoming  in  a  man  who  has  given  such  proofs  of  cour- 
age and  skill  to  an  avocat  who  has  never  handled  a  sword  nor 
fired  a  pistol." 

That  same  day  De  Mauleon  remitted  to  Hennequin  an  apol- 
ogy for  heated  words  freely  retracted,  which  satisfied  all  his 
friends.  For  the  service  thus  rendered  by  De  Mauleon, 
Hennequin  declared  himself  everlastingly  indebted.  In  fact, 
he  entirely  owed  to  that  friend  his  life,  his  marriage,  his 
honour,  his  career. 

"And  now,"  thought  De  Mauleon,  "now,  when  he  could  so 
easily  requite  me, —  now  he  will  not  even  take  my  hand.  Is 
human  nature  itself  at  war  with  me?" 


VOL.  I.  —  21 


322  THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER   III. 

NOTHING  could  be  simpler  than  the  apartment  of  the  Vi- 
comte  de  Mauteon,  in  the  second  story  of  a  quiet  old-fashioned 
street.  It  had  been  furnished  at  small  cost  out  of  his  sav- 
ings. Yet,  on  the  whole,  it  evinced  the  good  taste  of  a  man 
who  had  once  been  among  the  exquisites  of  the  polite  world. 

You  felt  that  you  were  in  the  apartment  of  a  gentleman, 
and  a  gentleman  of  somewhat  severe  tastes,  and  of  sober  ma- 
tured years.  He  was  sitting  the  next  morning  in  the  room 
which  he  used  as  a  private  study.  Along  the  walls  were  ar- 
ranged dwarf  bookcases,  as  yet  occupied  by  few  books,  most 
of  them  books  of  reference,  others  cheap  editions  of  the 
French  classics  in  prose  —  no  poets,  no  romance-writers, — 
with  a  few  Latin  authors  also  in  prose, —  Cicero,  Sallust, 
Tacitus.  He  was  engaged  at  his  desk  writing, —  a  book  with 
its  leaves  open  before  him,  "  Paul  Louis  Courier, "  that  model 
of  political  irony  and  masculine  style  of  composition.  There 
was  a  ring  at  his  door-bell.  The  Vicomte  kept  no  servant. 
He  rose  and  answered  the  summons.  He  recoiled  a  few  paces 
on  recognizing  his  visitor  in  M.  Hennequin. 

The  Prtfet  this  time  did  not  withdraw  his  hand;  he  ex- 
tended it,  but  it  was  with  a  certain  awkwardness  and  timidity. 

"  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  call  on  you,  Vicomte,  thus  early, 
having  already  seen  M.  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar.  He  has 
shown  me  the  copies  of  the  pieces  which  were  inspected  by 
your  distinguished  kinsmen,  and  which  completely  clear  you 
of  the  charge  that  —  grant  me  your  pardon  when  I  say  — 
seemed  to  me  still  to  remain  unanswered  when  I  had  the 
honour  to  meet  you  last  night." 

"  It  appears  to  me,  Monsieur  Hennequin,  that  you,  as  an 
avocat  so  eminent,  might  have  convinced  yourself  very  readily 
of  that  fact." 


THE  PARISIANS.  323 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,  I  was  in  Switzerland  with  my  wife 
at  the  time  of  the  unfortunate  affair  in  which  you  were 
involved." 

"  But  when  you  returned  to  Paris,  you  might  perhaps  have 
deigned  to  make  inquiries  so  affecting  the  honour  of  one  you 
had  called  a  friend,  and  for  whom  you  had  professed  "  —  De 
Mauleon  paused ;  he  disdained  to  add  —  "  an  eternal  gratitude. " 

Hennequin  coloured  slightly,  but  replied  with  self-pos- 
session. 

"  I  certainly  did  inquire.  I  did  hear  that  the  charge  against 
you  with  regard  to  the  abstraction  of  the  jewels  was  with- 
drawn, that  you  were  therefore  acquitted  by  law ;  but  I  heard 
also  that  society  did  not  acquit  you,  and  that,  finding  this, 
you  had  quitted  France.  Pardon  me  again,  no  one  would  lis- 
ten to  me  when  I  attempted  to  speak  on  your  behalf.  But 
now  that  so  many  years  have  elapsed,  that  the  story  is  imper- 
fectly remembered,  that  relations  so  high-placed  receive  you 
so  cordially, — now  I  rejoice  to  think  that  you  will  have  no 
difficulty  in  regaining  a  social  position  never  really  lost,  but 
for  a  time  resigned." 

"I  am  duly  sensible  of  the  friendly  joy  you  express.  I 
was  reading  the  other  day  in  a  lively  author  some  pleasant 
remarks  on  the  effects  of  m£disance  or  calumny  upon  our  im- 
pressionable Parisian  public.  'If,'  says  the  writer,  'I  found 
myself  accused  of  having  put  the  two  towers  of  Notre  Dame 
into  my  waistcoat-pocket  I  should  not  dream  of  defending 
myself;  I  should  take  to  flight.  And,'  adds  the  writer,  'if 
my  best  friend  were  under  the  same  accusation,  I  should  be 
so  afraid  of  being  considered  his  accomplice  that  I  should  put 
my  best  friend  outside  the  door.'  Perhaps,  Monsieur 
Hennequin,  I  was  seized  with  the  first  alarm.  Why  should 
I  blame  you  if  seized  with  the  second?  Happily,  this  good 
city  of  Paris  has  its  reactions.  And  you  can  now  offer  me 
your  hand.  Paris  has  by  this  time  discovered  that  the  two 
towers  of  Notre  Dame  are  not  in  my  pocket." 

There  was  a  pause.  De  Mauleon  had  resettled  himself  at 
his  desk,  bending  over  his  papers,  and  his  manner  seemed  to 
imply  that  he  considered  the  conversation  at  an  end. 


324  THE  PARISIANS. 

But  a  pang  of  shame,  of  remorse,  of  tender  remembrance, 
shot  across  the  heart  of  the  decorous,  worldly,  self-seeking 
man,  who  owed  all  that  he  now  was  to  the  ci-devant  vaurien 
before  him.  Again  he  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  this  time 
grasped  De  Mauleon's  warmly.  "Forgive  me,"  he  said,  feel- 
ingly and  hoarsely ;  "  forgive  me,  I  was  to  blame.  By  char- 
acter, and  perhaps  by  the  necessities  of  my  career,'  I  am  over- 
timid  to  public  opinion,  public  scandal.  Forgive  me.  Say  if 
in  anything  now  I  can  requite,  though  but  slightly,  the  ser- 
vice I  owe  you." 

De  Mauleon  looked  steadily  at  the  Prefet,  and  said  slowly, 
"Would  you  serve  me  in  turn?  Are  you  sincere?" 

The  Prefet  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered  firmly, 
"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  what  I  ask  of  you  is  a  frank  opinion, — not  as 
lawyer,  not  as  Prefet,  but  as  a  man  who  knows  the  present 
state  of  French  society.  Give  that  opinion  without  respect 
to  my  feelings  one  way  or  other.  Let  it  emanate  solely  from 
your  practised  judgment." 

"Be  it  so,"  said  Hennequin,  wondering  what  was  to  come. 

De  Mauleon  resumed, — 

"As  you  may  remember,  during  my  former  career  I  had  no 
political  ambition.  I  did  not  meddle  with  politics.  In  the 
troubled  times  that  immediately  succeeded  the  fall  of  Louis 
Philippe  I  was  but  an  epicurean  looker-on.  Grant  that,  so 
far  as  admission  to  the  salons  is  concerned,  I  shall  encounter 
no  difficulty  in  regaining  position;  but  as  regards  the  Cham- 
ber, public  life,  a  political  career,  can  I  have  my  fair  opening 
under  the  Empire?  You  pause.  Answer  as  you  have  prom- 
ised, frankly." 

"  The  difficulties  in  the  way  of  a  political  career  would  be 
very  great." 

"Insuperable?" 

"  I  fear  so.  Of  course,  in  my  capacity  of  Prefet,  I  have  no 
small  influence  in  my  department  in  support  of  a  Government 
candidate.  But  I  do  not  think  that  the  Imperial  Government 
could,  at  this  time  especially,  in  which  it  must  be  very  cau- 
tious in  selecting  its  candidates,  be  induced  to  recommend 


THE   PARISIANS.  325 

you.  The  affair  of  the  jewels  would  be  raked  up;  your  vin- 
dication disputed,  denied;  the  fact  that  for  so  many  years 
you  have  acquiesced  in  that  charge  without  taking  steps  to 
refute  it;  your  antecedents,  even  apart  from  that  charge; 
your  present  want  of  property  (M.  Enguerrand  tells  me  your 
income  is  but  moderate) ;  the  absence  of  all  previous  repute 
in  public  life.  No;  relinquish  the  idea  of  political  contest, 
—  it  would  expose  you  to  inevitable  mortifications,  to  a  fail- 
ure that  would  even  jeopardize  the  admission  to  the  salons 
which  you  are  now  gaining.  You  could  not  be  a  Government 
candidate." 

"  Granted.  I  may  have  no  desire  to  be  one ;  but  an  opposi- 
tion candidate,  one  of  the  Liberal  party?" 

"As  an  Imperialist,"  said  Hennequin,  smiling  gravely, 
"and  holding  the  office  I  do,  it  would  not  become  me  to  en- 
courage a  candidate  against  the  Emperor's  Government.  But 
speaking  with  the  frankness  you  solicit,  I  should  say  that 
your  chances  there  are  infinitely  worse.  The  Opposition  are 
in  a  pitiful  minority, — the  most  eminent  of  the  Liberals  can 
scarcely  gain  seats  for  themselves;  great  local  popularity  or 
property,  high  established  repute  for  established  patriotism, 
or  proved  talents  of  oratory  and  statesmanship,  are  essential 
qualifications  for  a  seat  in  the  Opposition;  and  even  these  do 
not  suffice  for  a  third  of  the  persons  who  possess  them.  Be 
again  what  you  were  before, —  the  hero  of  salons  remote  from 
the  turbulent  vulgarity  of  politics." 

"I  am  answered.  Thank  you  once  more.  The  service  I 
rendered  you  once  is  requited  now." 

"No,  indeed, — no;  but  will  you  dine  with  me  quietly  to- 
day, and  allow  me  to  present  to  you  my  wife  and  two  chil- 
dren, born  since  we  parted?  I  say  to-day,  for  to-morrow  I 
return  to  my  Prefecture." 

"I  am  infinitely  obliged  by  your  invitation,  but  to-day  I 
dine  with  the  Comte  de  Beauvilliers  to  meet  some  of  the  Corps 
Diplomatique.  I  must  make  good  my  place  in  the  salons, 
since  you  so  clearly  show  me  that  I  have  no  chance  of  one  in 
the  Legislature  —  unless  —  " 

"Unless  what?" 


326  THE  PARISIANS. 

"Unless  there  happen  one  of  those  revolutions  in  which 
the  scum  comes  uppermost." 

"No  fear  of  that.  The  subterranean  barracks  and  railway 
have  ended  forever  the  rise  of  the  scum,  the  reign  of  the 
canaille  and  its  barricades." 

"  Adieu,  my  dear  Hennequin.  My  respectful  hommages  a 
Madame." 

After  that  day  the  writing  of  Pierre  Firmin  in  "Le  Sens 
Commun,"  though  still  keeping  within  the  pale  of  the  law, 
became  more  decidedly  hostile  to  the  Imperial  system,  still 
without  committing  their  author  to  any  definite  programme 
of  the  sort  of  government  that  should  succeed  it. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  weeks  glided  on.  Isaura's  manuscript  had  passed  into 
print;  it  came  out  in  the  French  fashion  of  feuilletons, —  a 
small  detachment  at  a  time.  A  previous  flourish  of  trumpets 
by  Savarin  and  the  clique  at  his  command  insured  it  atten- 
tion, if  not  from  the  general  public,  at  least  from  critical  and 
literary  coteries.  Before  the  fourth  instalment  appeared  it 
had  outgrown  the  patronage  of  the  coteries  -}  it  seized  hold  of 
the  public.  It  was  not  in  the  last  school  in  fashion;  inci- 
dents were  not  crowded  and  violent, — they  were  few  and 
simple,  rather  appertaining  to  an  elder  school,  in  which  poe- 
try of  sentiment  and  grace  of  diction  prevailed.  That  very 
resemblance  to  old  favourites  gave  it  the  attraction  of  novelty. 
In  a  word,  it  excited  a  pleased  admiration,  and  great  curios- 
ity was  felt  as  to  the  authorship.  When  it  oozed  out  that  it 
was  by  the  young  lady  whose  future  success  in  the  musical 
world  had  been  so  sanguinely  predicted  by  all  who  had  heard 
her  sing,  the  interest  wonderfully  increased.  Petitions  to  be 
introduced  to  her  acquaintance  were  showered  upon  Savarin. 
Before  she  scarcely  realized  her  dawning  fame,  she  was  drawn 


THE  PARISIANS.  327 

from  her  quiet  home  and  retired  habits;  she  was  fetee  and 
courted  in  the  literary  circle  of  which  Savariu  was  a  chief. 
That  circle  touched,  on  one  side,  Bohemia;  on  the  other, 
that  realm  of  politer  fashion  which,  in  every  intellectual 
metropolis,  but  especially  in  Paris,  seeks  to  gain  borrowed 
light  from  luminaries  in  art  and  letters.  But  the  very  admi- 
ration she  obtained  somewhat  depressed,  somewhat  troubled 
her;  after  all,  it  did  not  differ  from  that  which  was  at  her 
command  as  a  singer. 

On  the  one  hand,  she  shrank  instinctively  from  the  caresses 
of  female  authors  and  the  familiar  greetings  of  male  authors, 
who  frankly  lived  in  philosophical  disdain  of  the  conventions 
respected  by  sober,  decorous  mortals.  On  the  other  hand,  in 
the  civilities  of  those  who,  while  they  courted  a  rising  celeb- 
rity, still  held  their  habitual  existence  apart  from  the  artistic 
world,  there  was  a  certain  air  of  condescension,  of  patronage, 
towards  the  young  stranger  with  no  other  protector  but  Sig- 
nora  Venosta,  the  ci-devant  public  singer,  and  who  had  made 
her  debut  in  a  journal  edited  by  M.  Gustave  Rameau,  which, 
however  disguised  by  exaggerated  terms  of  praise,  wounded 
her  pride  of  woman  in  flattering  her  vanity  as  author.  Among 
this  latter  set  were  wealthy,  high-born  men,  who  addressed 
her  as  woman  —  as  woman  beautiful  and  young  —  with  words 
of  gallantry  that  implied  love,  but  certainly  no  thought  of 
marriage, —  many  of  the  most  ardent  were  indeed  married 
already.  But  once  launched  into  the  thick  of  Parisian  hospi- 
talities, it  was  difficult  to  draw  back.  The  Venosta  wept  at 
the  thought  of  missing  some  lively  soiree,  and  Savarin  laughed 
at  her  shrinking  fastidiousness  as  that  of  a  child's  ignorance 
of  the  world.  But  still  she  had  her  mornings  to  herself;  and 
in  those  mornings,  devoted  to  the  continuance  of  her  work 
(for  the  commencement  was  in  print  before  a  third  was  com- 
pleted), she  forgot  the  commonplace  world  that  received  her 
in  the  evenings.  Insensibly  to  herself  the  tone  of  this  work 
had  changed  as  it  proceeded.  It  had  begun  seriously  indeed, 
but  in  the  seriousness  there  was  a  certain  latent  joy.  It  might 
be  the  joy  of  having  found  vent  of  utterance;  it  might  be 
rather  a  joy  still  more  latent,  inspired  by  the  remembrance  of 


328  THE  PARISIANS. 

Graham's  words  and  looks,  and  by  the  thought  that  she  had 
renounced  all  idea  of  the  professional  career  which  he  had 
evidently  disapproved.  Life  then  seemed  to  her  a  bright  pos- 
session. We  have  seen  that  she  had  begun  her  roman  without 
planning  how  it  should  end.  She  had,  however,  then  meant 
it  to  end,  somehow  or  other,  happily.  Now  the  lustre  had 
gone  from  life;  the  tone  of  the  work  was  saddened;  it  fore- 
boded a  tragic  close.  But  for  the  general  reader  it  became, 
with  every  chapter,  still  more  interesting;  the  poor  child  had 
a  singularly  musical  gift  of  style,  —  a  music  which  lent  itself 
naturally  to  pathos.  Every  very  young  writer  knows  how  his 
work,  if  one  of  feeling,  will  colour  itself  from  the  views  of 
some  truth  in  his  innermost  self;  and  in  proportion  as  it 
does  so,  how  his  absorption  in  the  work  increases,  till  it  be- 
comes part  and  parcel  of  his  own  mind  and  heart.  The  pres- 
ence of  a  hidden  sorrow  may  change  the  fate  of  the  beings  he 
has  created,  and  guide  to  the  grave  those  whom,  in  a  happier 
vein,  he  would  have  united  at  the  altar.  It  is  not  till  a  later 
stage  of  experience  and  art  that  the  writer  escapes  from  the 
influence  of  his  individual  personality,  and  lives  in  existences 
that  take  no  colourings  from  his  own.  Genius  usually  must 
pass  through  the  subjective  process  before  it  gains  the  objec- 
tive. Even  a  Shakspeare  represents  himself  in  the  Sonnets 
before  no  trace  of  himself  is  visible  in  a  Falstaff  or  a  Lear. 

No  news  of  the  Englishman, — not  a  word.  Isaura  could  not 
but  feel  that  in  his  words,  his  looks,  that  day  in  her  own  garden, 
and  those  yet  happier  days  at  Enghien,  there  had  been  more 
than  friendship;  there  had  been  love, —  love  enough  to  jus- 
tify her  own  pride  in  whispering  to  herself,  "And  I  love 
too."  But  then  that  last  parting!  how  changed  he  was!  how 
cold!  She  conjectured  that  jealousy  of  Kameau  might,  in 
some  degree,  account  for  the  coldness  when  he  first  entered 
the  room,  but  surely  not  when  he  left;  surely  not  when  she 
had  overpassed  the  reserve  of  her  sex,  and  implied  by  signs 
rarely  misconstrued  by  those  who  love  that  he  had  no  cause 
for  jealousy  of  another.  Yet  he  had  gone, —  parted  with  her 
pointedly  as  a  friend,  a  mere  friend.  How  foolish  she  had 
been  to  think  this  rich  ambitious  foreigner  could  ever  have 


THE  PARISIANS.  329 

meant  to  be  more !  In  the  occupation  of  her  work  she  thought 
to  banish  his  image ;  but  in  that  work  the  image  was  never 
absent ;  there  were  passages  in  which  she  pleadingly  addressed 
it,  and  then  would  cease  abruptly,  stifled  by  passionate  tears. 
Still  she  fancied  that  the  work  would  reunite  them ;  that  in 
its  pages  he  would  hear  her  voice  and  comprehend  her  heart. 
And  thus  all  praise  of  the  work  became  very,  very  dear  to 
her. 

At  last,  after  many  weeks,  Savarin  heard  from  Graham. 
The  letter  was  dated  Aix-la-Chapelle,  at  which  the  English- 
man said  he  might  yet  be  some  time  detained.  In  the  letter 
Graham  spoke  chiefly  of  the  new  journal :  in  polite  compli- 
ment of  Savarin's  own  effusions;  in  mixed  praise  and  con- 
demnation of  the  political  and  social  articles  signed  Pierre 
Firmin, —  praise  of  their  intellectual  power,  condemnation  of 
their  moral  cynicism. 

"  The  writer,"  he  said,  "  reminds  me  of  a  passage  in  which  Montes- 
quieu compares  the  heathen  philosophers  to  those  plants  which  the 
earth  produces  in  places  that  have  never  seen  the  heavens.  The  soil  of 
his  experience  does  not  grow  a  single  belief  ;  and  as  no  community  can 
exist  without  a  belief  of  some  kind,  so  a  politician  without  belief  can  but 
help  to  destroy  ;  he  cannot  reconstruct.  Such  writers  corrupt  a  society ; 
they  do  not  reform  a  system." 

He  closed  his  letter  with  a  reference  to  Isaura :  — 

"  Do,  in  your  reply,  my  dear  Savarin,  tell  me  something  about  your 
friends  Signora  Venosta  and  the  Signorina,  whose  work,  so  far  as  yet 
published,  I  have  read  with  admiring  astonishment  at  the  power  of  a 
female  writer  so  young  to  rival  the  veteran  practitioners  of  fiction  in  the 
creation  of  interest  in  imaginary  characters,  and  in  sentiments  which,  if 
they  appear  somewhat  over-romantic  and  exaggerated,  still  touch  very 
fine  chords  in  human  nature  not  awakened  in  our  trite  every -day  existence. 
I  presume  that  the  beauty  of  the  roman  has  been  duly  appreciated  by  a 
public  so  refined  as  the  Parisian,  and  that  the  name  of  the  author  is  gener- 
ally known.  No  doubt  she  is  now  much  the  rage  of  the  literary  circles, 
and  her  career  as  a  writer  may  be  considered  fixed.  Pray  present  my 
congratulations  to  the  Signorina  when  you  see  her." 

Savarin  had  been  in  receipt  of  this  letter  some  days  before 
he  called  on  Isaura,  and  carelessly  showed  it  to  her.  She 


330  THE  PARISIANS. 

took  it  to  the  window  to  read,  in  order  to  conceal  the  trem- 
bling of  her  hands.  In  a  few  minutes  she  returned  it 
silently. 

"Those  Englishmen,"  said  Savarin,  "have  not  the  heart  of 
compliment.  I  am  by  no  means  nattered  by  what  he  says  of 
my  trifles,  and  I  dare  say  you  are  still  less  pleased  with  this 
chilly  praise  of  your  charming  tale ;  but  the  man  means  to  be 
civil." 

"  Certainly, "  said  Isaura,  smiling  faintly. 

"  Only  think  of  Eameau !  "  resumed  Savarin.  "  On  the 
strength  of  his  salary  in  the  'Sens  Commun,'  and  on  the 
chateaux  en  Espagne  which  he  constructs  thereon,  he  has 
already  furnished  an  apartment  in  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  and 
talks  of  setting  up  a  coup6  in  order  to  maintain  the  dignity 
of  letters  when  he  goes  to  dine  with  the  duchesses  who  are 
some  day  or  other  to  invite  him.  Yet  I  admire  his  self- 
confidence,  though  I  laugh  at  it.  A  man  gets  on  by  a  spring 
in  his  own  mechanism,  and  he  should  always  keep  it  wound 
up.  Kameau  will  make  a  figure.  I  used  to  pity  him ;  I  begin 
to  respect.  Nothing  succeeds  like  success.  But  I  see  I  am 
spoiling  your  morning.  Au  revoir,  man  enfant." 

Left  alone,  Isaura  brooded  in  a  sort  of  mournful  wonder- 
ment over  the  words  referring  to  herself  in  Graham's  letter. 
Read  though  but  once,  she  knew  them  by  heart.  What !  did 
he  consider  those  characters  she  had  represented  as  wholly 
imaginary?  In  one  —  the  most  prominent,  the  most  attractive 
—  could  he  detect  no  likeness  to  himself?  What!  did  he  con- 
sider so  "  over-romantic  and  exaggerated  "  sentiments  which 
couched  appeals  from  her  heart  to  his?  Alas!  in  matters  of 
sentiment  it  is  the  misfortune  of  us  men  that  even  the  most 
refined  of  us  often  grate  upon  some  sentiment  in  a  woman, 
though  she  may  not  be  romantic,  —  not  romantic  at  all,  as  peo- 
ple go,  —  some  sentiment  which  she  thought  must  be  so  ob- 
vious if  we  cared  a  straw  about  her,  and  which,  though  we  prize 
her  above  the  Indies,  is  by  our  dim,  horn-eyed,  masculine  vis- 
ion undiscernible.  It  may  be  something  in  itself  the  airiest 
of  trifles :  the  anniversary  of  a  day  in  which  the  first  kiss  was 
interchanged,  nay,  of  a  violet  gathered,  a  misunderstanding 


THE  PARISIANS.  331 

cleared  up;  and  of  that  anniversary  we  remember  no  more 
than  we  do  of  our  bells  and  coral.  But  she  —  she  remembers 
it;  it  is  no  bells  and  coral  to  her.  Of  course,  much  is  to  be 
said  in  excuse  of  man,  brute  though  he  be.  Consider  the 
multiplicity  of  his  occupations,  the  practical  nature  of  his 
cares.  But  granting  the  validity  of  all  such  excuse,  there  is 
in  man  an  original  obtuseness  of  fibre  as  regards  sentiment  in 
comparison  with  the  delicacy  of  woman's.  It  comes,  per- 
haps, from  the  same  hardness  of  constitution  which  forbids 
us  the  luxury  of  ready  tears.  Thus  it  is  very  difficult  for  the 
wisest  man  to  understand  thoroughly  a  woman.  Goethe  says 
somewhere  that  the  highest  genius  in  man  must  have  much 
of  the  woman  in  it.  If  this  be  true,  the  highest  genius  alone 
in  man  can  comprehend  and  explain  the  nature  of  woman,  be- 
cause it  is  not  remote  from  him,  but  an  integral  part  of  his 
masculine  self.  I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  it  necessitates 
the  highest  genius,  but  rather  a  special  idiosyncrasy  in  genius 
which  the  highest  may  or  may  not  have.  I  think  Sophocles 
a  higher  genius  than  Euripides ;  but  Euripides  has  that  idio- 
syncrasy, and  Sophocles  not.  I  doubt  whether  women  would 
accept  Goethe  as  their  interpreter  with  the  same  readiness 
with  which  they  would  accept  Schiller.  Shakspeare,  no 
doubt,  excels  all  poets  in  the  comprehension  of  women,  in 
his  sympathy  with  them  in  the  woman-part  of  his  nature 
which  Goethe  ascribes  to  the  highest  genius;  but,  putting 
aside  that  "monster,"  I  do  not  remember  any  English  poet 
whom  we  should  consider  conspicuously  eminent  in  that  lore, 
unless  it  be  the  prose  poet,  nowadays  generally  underrated 
and  little  read,  who  wrote  the  letters  of  Clarissa  Harlowe.  I 
say  all  this  in  vindication  of  Graham  Vane,  if,  though  a  very 
clever  man  in  his  way,  and  by  no  means  uninstructed  in  hu- 
man nature,  he  had  utterly  failed  in  comprehending  the  mys- 
teries which  to  this  poor  woman-child  seemed  to  need  no  key 
for  one  who  really  loved  her.  But  we  have  said  somewhere 
before  in  this  book  that  music  speaks  in  a  language  which 
cannot  explain  itself  except  in  music.  So  speaks,  in  the  hu- 
man heart,  much  which  is  akin  to  music.  Fiction  (that  is, 
poetry,  whether  in  form  of  rhyme  or  prose)  speaks  thus  pretty 


332  THE  PARISIANS. 

often.  A  reader  must  be  more  commonplace  than,  I  trust,  my 
gentle  readers  are,  if  he  suppose  that  when  Isaura  symbolized 
the  real  hero  of  her  thoughts  in  the  fabled  hero  of  her  ro- 
mance, she  depicted  him  as  one  of  whom  the  world  could  say, 
"That  is  Graham  Vane."  I  doubt  if  even  a  male  poet  would 
so  vulgarize  any  woman  whom  he  thoroughly  reverenced  and 
loved.  She  is  too  sacred  to  him  to  be  thus  unveiled  to  the 
public  stare;  as  the  sweetest  of  all  ancient  love-poets  says 
well  — 

"  Qui  sapit  in  tacito  gaud  eat  ille  sinu. " 

But  a  girl,  a  girl  in  her  first  untold  timid  love,  to  let  the 
world  know,  "  that  is  the  man  I  love  and  would  die  for !  "  —  if 
such  a  girl  be,  she  has  no  touch  of  the  true  woman-genius, 
and  certainly  she  and  Isaura  have  nothing  in  common.  Well, 
then,  in  Isaura's  invented  hero,  though  she  saw  the  arche- 
typal form  of  Graham  Vane,  —  saw  him  as  in  her  young, 
vague,  romantic  dreams  idealized,  beautified,  transfigured, — 
he  would  have  been  the  vainest  of  men  if  he  had  seen  therein 
the  reflection  of  himself.  On  the  contrary  he  said,  in  the 
spirit  of  that  jealousy  to  which  he  was  too  prone,  "Alas! 
this,  then,  is  some  ideal,  already  seen  perhaps,  compared  to 
which  how  commonplace  am  I ! "  and  thus  persuading  him- 
self, no  wonder  that  the  sentiments  surrounding  this  unrecog- 
nized archetype  appeared  to  him  over-romantic.  His  taste 
acknowledged  the  beauty  of  form  which  clothed  them;  his 
heart  envied  the  ideal  that  inspired  them.  But  they  seemed 
so  remote  from  him;  they  put  the  dreamland  of  the  writer 
farther  and  farther  from  his  workday  real  life. 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  then,  he  had  written  to  Savarin,  and 
the  answer  he  received  hardened  it  still  more.  Savarin  had 
replied,  as  was  his  laudable  wont  in  correspondence,  the  very 
day  he  received  Graham's  letter,  and  therefore  before  he  had 
even  seen  Isaura.  In  his  reply,  he  spoke  much  of  the  success 
her  work  had  obtained ;  of  the  invitations  showered  upon  her, 
and  the  sensation  she  caused  in  the  salons;  of  her  future 
career,  with  hope  that  she  might  even  rival  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil  some  day,  when  her  ideas  became  emboldened 


THE  PARISIANS.  333 

by  maturer  experience,  and  a  closer  study  of  that  model  of 
eloquent  style, —  saying  that  the  young  editor  was  evidently 
becoming  enamoured  of  his  fair  contributor;  and  that  Madame 
Savarin  had  ventured  the  prediction  that  the  Signer ina's 
roman  would  end  in  the  death  of  the  heroine,  and  the  marriage 
of  the  writer. 


CHAPTER  V. 

AND  still  the  weeks  glided  on :  autumn  succeeded  to  sum- 
mer, the  winter  to  autumn;  the  season  of  Paris  was  at  its 
height.  The  wondrous  capital  seemed  to  repay  its  Imperial 
embellisher  by  the  splendour  and  the  joy  of  its  fetes.  But 
the  smiles  on  the  face  of  Paris  were  hypocritical  and  hollow. 
The  Empire  itself  had  passed  out  of  fashion.  Grave  men 
and  impartial  observers  felt  anxious.  Napoleon  had  re- 
nounced les  id£es  NapoUoniennes.  He  was  passing  into  the 
category  of  constitutional  sovereigns,  and  reigning,  not  by 
his  old  undivided  prestige,  but  by  the  grace  of  party.  The 
press  was  free  to  circulate  complaints  as  to  the  past  and  de- 
mands as  to  the  future,  beneath  which  the  present  reeled, 
ominous  of  earthquake.  People  asked  themselves  if  it  were 
possible  that  the  Empire  could  co-exist  with  forms  of  govern- 
ment not  imperial,  yet  not  genuinely  constitutional,  with  a 
majority  daily  yielding  to  a  minority.  The  basis  of  universal 
suffrage  was  sapped.  About  this  time  the  articles  in  the 
"  Sens  Commun  "  signed  Pierre  Firmin  were  creating  not  only 
considerable  sensation,  but  marked  effect  on  opinion;  and  the 
sale  of  the  journal  was  immense. 

Necessarily  the  repute  and  the  position  of  Gustave  Eameau, 
as  the  avowed  editor  of  this  potent  journal,  rose  with  its 
success.  Nor  only  his  repute  and  position;  bank-notes  of 
considerable  value  were  transmitted  to  him  by  the  publisher, 
with  the  brief  statement  that  they  were  sent  by  the  sole  pro- 


334  THE  PARISIANS. 

prietor  of  the  paper  as  the  editor's  fair  share  of  profit.  The 
proprietor  was  never  named,  but  Kameau  took  it  for  granted 
that  it  was  M.  Lebeau.  M.  Lebeau  he  had  never  seen  since 
the  day  he  had  brought  him  the  list  of  contributors,  and  was 
then  referred  to  the  publisher,  whom  he  supposed  M.  Lebeau 
had  secured,  and  received  the  first  quarter  of  his  salary  in 
advance.  The  salary  was  a  trifle  compared  to  the  extra 
profits  thus  generously  volunteered.  He  called  at  Lebeau's 
office,  and  saw  only  the  clerk,  who  said  that  his  chef  was 
abroad. 

Prosperity  produced  a  marked  change  for  the  better,  if  not 
in  the  substance  of  Rameau's  character,  at  least  in  his  man- 
ners and  social  converse.  He  no  longer  exhibited  that  rest- 
less envy  of  rivals,  which  is  the  most  repulsive  symptom  of 
vanity  diseased.  He  pardoned  Isaura  her  success;  nay,  he 
was  even  pleased  at  it.  The  nature  of  her  work  did  not  clash 
with  his  own  kind  of  writing.  It  was  so  thoroughly  woman- 
like that  one  could  not  compare  it  to  a  man's.  Moreover, 
that  success  had  contributed  largely  to  the  profits  by  which 
he  had  benefited,  and  to  his  renown  as  editor  of  the  journal 
which  accorded  place  to  this  new-found  genius.  But  there 
was  a  deeper  and  more  potent  cause  for  sympathy  with  the 
success  of  his  fair  young  contributor.  He  had  imperceptibly 
glided  into  love  with  her,  —  a  love  very  different  from  that 
with  which  poor  Julie  Caumartin  flattered  herself  she  had  in- 
spired the  young  poet.  Isaura  was  one  of  those  women  for 
whom,  even  in  natures  the  least  chivalric,  love,  however  ar- 
dent, cannot  fail  to  be  accompanied  with  a  certain  reverence, 
—  the  reverence  with  which  the  ancient  knighthood,  in  its 
love  for  women,  honoured  the  ideal  purity  of  womanhood  it- 
self. Till  then  Eameau  had  never  revered  any  one. 

On  her  side,  brought  so  frequently  into  communication  with 
the  young  conductor  of  the  journal  in  which  she  wrote,  Isaura 
entertained  for  him  a  friendly,  almost  sister-like  affection. 

I  do  not  think  that,  even  if  she  had  never  known  the  Eng- 
lishman, she  would  have  really  become  in  love  with  Eameau, 
despite  the  picturesque  beauty  of  his  countenance  and  the 
congeniality  of  literary  pursuits;  but  perhaps  she  might  have 


THE  PARISIANS.  335 

fancied  herself  in  love  with  him.  And  till  one,  whether 
man  or  woman,  has  known  real  love,  fancy  is  readily  mis- 
taken for  it.  But  little  as  she  had  seen  of  Graham,  and  that 
little  not  in  itself  wholly  favourable  to  him,  she  knew  in  her 
heart  of  hearts  that  his  image  would  never  be  replaced  by  one 
equally  dear.  Perhaps  in  those  qualities  that  placed  him  in 
opposition  to  her  she  felt  his  attractions.  The  poetical  in 
woman  exaggerates  the  worth  of  the  practical  in  man.  Still 
for  Rameau  her  exquisitely  kind  and  sympathizing  nature 
conceived  one  of  those  sentiments  which  in  woman  are  al- 
most angel-like.  We  have  seen  in  her  letters  to  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil  that  from  the  first  he  inspired  her  with  a  com- 
passionate interest;  then  the  compassion  was  checked  by  her 
perception  of  his  more  unamiable  and  envious  attributes. 
But  now  those  attributes,  if  still  existent,  had  ceased  to  be 
apparent  to  her,  and  the  compassion  became  unalloyed.  In- 
deed, it  was  thus  so  far  increased  that  it  was  impossible  for 
any  friendly  observer  to  look  at  the  beautiful  face  of  this 
youth,  prematurely  wasted  and  worn,  without  the  kindliness  of 
pity.  His  prosperity  had  brightened  and  sweetened  the  ex- 
pression of  that  face,  but  it  had  not  effaced  the  vestiges  of 
decay;  rather  perhaps  deepened  them,  for  the  duties  of  his 
post  necessitated  a  regular  labour,  to  which  he  had  been  unac- 
customed, and  the  regular  labour  necessitated,  or  seemed  to 
him  to  necessitate,  an  increase  of  fatal  stimulants.  He  im- 
bibed absinthe  with  everything  he  drank,  and  to  absinthe  he 
united  opium.  This,  of  course,  Isaura  knew  not,  any  more 
than  she  knew  of  his  liaison  with  the  "Ondine  "  of  his  muse; 
she  saw  only  the  increasing  delicacy  of  his  face  and  form, 
contrasted  by  his  increased  geniality  and  liveliness  of  spirits, 
and  the  contrast  saddened  her.  Intellectually,  too,  she  felt 
for  him  compassion.  She  recognized  and  respected  in  him 
the  yearnings  of  a  genius  too  weak  to  perform  a  tithe  of  what, 
in  the  arrogance  of  youth,  it  promised  to  its  ambition.  She 
saw,  too,  those  struggles  between  a  higher  and  a  lower  self, 
to  which  a  weak  degree  of  genius  united  with  a  strong  degree 
of  arrogance  is  so  often  subjected.  Perhaps  she  over-esti- 
mated the  degree  of  genius,  and  what,  if  rightly  guided,  it 


336  THE   PARISIANS. 

could  do;  but  she  did,  in  the  desire  of  her  own  heavenlier  in- 
stinct, aspire  to  guide  it  heavenward.  And  as  if  she  were 
twenty  years  older  than  himself,  she  obeyed  that  desire  in 
remonstrating  and  warning  and  urging,  and  the  young  man 
took  all  these  "  preachments  "  with  a  pleased  submissive  pa- 
tience. Such,  as  the  new  year  dawned  upon  the  grave  of  the 
old  one,  was  the  position  between  these  two.  And  nothing 
more  was  heard  from  Graham  Vane. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

IT  has  now  become  due  to  Graham  Vane,  and  to  his  place 
in  the  estimation  of  my  readers,  to  explain  somewhat  more 
distinctly  the  nature  of  the  quest  in  prosecution  of  which  he 
had  sought  the  aid  of  the  Parisian  police,  and  under  an  as- 
sumed name  made  the  acquaintance  of  M.  Lebeau. 

The  best  way  of  discharging  this  duty  will  perhaps  be  to 
place  before  the  reader  the  contents  of  the  letter  which  passed 
under  Graham's  eyes  on  the  day  in  which  the  heart  of  the 
writer  ceased  to  beat. 

(Confidential.    To  be  opened  immediately  after  my  dea,th,  and  before  the 
perusal  of  my  will.  —  Richard  King.) 

To  GRAHAM  VANE,  Esq. 

MY  DEAR  GRAHAM,  —  By  the  direction  on  the  envelope  of  this  let- 
ter, "  Before  the  perusal  of  my  will,"  I  have  wished  to  save  you  from  the 
disappointment  you  would  naturally  experience  if  you  learned  my  be- 
quest without  being  prevised  of  the  conditions  which  I  am  about  to  im- 
pose upon  your  honour.  You  will  see  ere  you  conclude  this  letter  that 
you  are  the  only  man  living  to  whom  I  could  intrust  the  secret  it  con- 
tains and  the  task  it  enjoins. 

You  are  aware  that  I  was  not  born  to  the  fortune  that  passed  to  me 
by  the  death  of  a  distant  relation,  who  had,  in  my  earlier  youth,  children 
of  his  own.  I  was  an  only  son,  left  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  sixteen  with 


THE  PARISIANS.  337 

a  very  slender  pittance.  My  guardians  designed  me  for  the  medical 
profession.  I  began  my  studies  at  Edinburgh,  and  was  sent  to  Paris  to 
complete  them.  It  so  chanced  that  there  I  lodged  in  the  same  house 
with  an  artist  named  Auguste  Duval,  who,  failing  to  gain  his  livelihood  as 
a  painter,  in  what — for  his  style  was  ambitious  —  is  termed  the  Histori- 
cal School,  had  accepted  the  humbler  calling  of  a  drawing-master.  He 
had  practised  in  that  branch  of  the  profession  for  several  years  at  Tours, 
having  a  good  clientele  among  English  families  settled  there.  This 
clientele,  as  he  frankly  confessed,  he  had  lost  from  some  irregularities  of 
conduct.  He  was  not  a  bad  man,  but  of  convivial  temper,  and  easily  led 
into  temptation.  He  had  removed  to  Paris  a  few  months  before  I  made 
his  acquaintance.  He  obtained  a  few  pupils,  and  often  lost  them  as 
soon  as  gained.  He  was  unpunctual  and  addicted  to  drink.  But  he 
had  a  small  pension,  accorded  to  him,  he  was  wont  to  say  mysteriously, 
by  some  high-born  kinsfolk,  too  proud  to  own  connection  with  a  draw- 
ing-master, and  on  the  condition  that  he  should  never  name  them.  He 
never  did  name  them  to  me,  and  I  do  not  know  to  this  day  whether  the 
story  of  this  noble  relationship  was  true  or  false.  A  pension,  however, 
he  did  receive  quarterly  from  some  person  or  other,  and  it  was  an 
unhappy  provision  for  him.  It  tended  to  make  him  an  idler  in  his 
proper  calling ;  and  whenever  he  received  the  payment  he  spent  it  in 
debauch,  to  the  neglect,  while  it  lasted,  of  his  pupils.  This  man  had 
residing  with  him  a  young  daughter,  singularly  beautiful.  You  may 
divine  the  rest.  I  fell  in  love  with  her,  —  a  love  deepened  by  the  com- 
passion with  which  she  inspired  me.  Her  father  left  her  so  frequently 
that,  living  on  the  same  floor,  we  saw  much  of  each  other.  Parent  and 
child  were  often  in  great  need,  —  lacking  even  fuel  or  food.  Of  course 
I  assisted  them  to  the  utmost  of  my  scanty  means  Much  as  I  was  fas- 
cinated by  Louise  Duval,  I  was  not  blind  to  great  defects  in  her  charac- 
ter. She  was  capricious,  vain,  aware  of  her  beauty,  and  sighing  for  the 
pleasures  or  the  gauds  beyond  her  reach.  I  knew  that  she  did  not  love 
me?  —  there  was  little,  indeed,  to  captivate  her  fancy  in  a  poor, 
threadbare  medical  student,  —  and  yet  I  fondly  imagined  that  my  own 
persevering  devotion  would  at  length  win  her  affections.  I  spoke  to  her 
father  more  than  once  of  my  hope  some  day  to  make  Louise  my  wife. 
This  hope,  I  must  frankly  acknowledge,  he  never  encouraged.  On  the 
contrary,  he  treated  it  with  scorn,  —  "  His  child  with  her  beauty  would 
look  much  higher;  "  but  he  continued  all  the  same  to  accept  my  assistance, 
and  to  sanction  my  visits.  At  length  my  slender  purse  was  pretty  well 
exhausted,  and  the  luckless  drawing-master  was  so  harassed  with  petty 
debts  that  further  credit  became  impossible.  At  this  time  I  happened 
to  hear  from  a  fellow-student  that  his  sister,  who  was  the  principal  of  a 
VOL.  i  —  22 


338  THE  PARISIANS. 

lady's  school  in  Cheltenham,  had  commissioned  him  to  look  out  for  a  first- 
rate  teacher  of  drawing  with  whom  her  elder  pupils  could  converse  in 
French,  but  who  should  be  sufficiently  acquainted  with  English  to  make 
his  instructions  intelligible  to  the  young.  The  salary  was  liberal,  the 
school  large  and  of  high  repute,  and  his  appointment  to  it  would  open  to 
an  able  teacher  no  inconsiderable  connection  among  private  families.  I 
communicated  this  intelligence  to  Duval.  He  caught  at  it  eagerly.  He 
had  learned  at  Tours  to  speak  English  fluently ;  and  as  his  professional 
skill  was  of  high  order,  and  he  was  popular  with  several  eminent  artists, 
he  obtained  certificates  as  to  his  talents,  which  my  fellow-student  for- 
warded to  England  with  specimens  of  Duval's  drawings.  In  a  few  days 
the  offer  of  an  engagement  arrived,  was  accepted,  and  Duval  and  his 
daughter  set  out  for  Cheltenham.  At  the  eve  of  their  departure,  Louise, 
profoundly  dejected  at  the  prospect  of  banishment  to  a  foreign  country, 
and  placing  no  trust  in  her  father's  reform  to  steady  habits,  evinced  a 
tenderness  for  me  hitherto  new  ;  she  wept  bitterly  ;  she  allowed  me  to 
believe  that  her  tears  flowed  at  the  thought  of  parting  with  me,  and 
even  besought  me  to  accompany  them  to  Cheltenham,  if  only  for  a  few 
days.  You  may  suppose  how  delightedly  I  complied  with  the  request. 
Duval  had  been  about  a  week  at  the  watering-place,  and  was  discharg- 
ing the  duties  he  had  undertaken  with  such  unwonted  steadiness  and 
regularity  that  I  began  sorrowfully  to  feel  I  had  no  longer  an  excuse 
for  not  returning  to  my  studies  at  Paris,  when  the  poor  teacher  was 
seized  with  a  fit  of  paralysis.  He  lost  the  power  of  movement,  and  his 
mind  was  affected.  The  medical  attendant  called  in  said  that  he  might 
linger  thus  for  some  time,  but  that,  even  if  he  recovered  his  intellect, 
which  was  more  than  doubtful,  he  would  never  be  able  to  resume  his  pro- 
fession. I  could  not  leave  Louise  in  circumstances  so  distressing,  —  I 
remained.  The  little  money  Duval  had  brought  from  Paris  was  now 
exhausted ;  and  when  the  day  on  which  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
receiving  his  quarter's  pension  came  round,  Louise  was  unable  even  to 
conjecture  how  it  was  to  be  applied  for.  It  seems  he  had  always  gone 
for  it  in  person  ;  but  to  whom  he  went  was  a  secret  which  he  had  never 
divulged,  and  at  this  critical  juncture  his  mind  was  too  enfeebled  even 
to  comprehend  us  when  we  inquired.  I  had  already  drawn  from  the 
small  capital  on  the  interest  of  which  I  had  maintained  myself ;  I  now 
drew  out  most  of  the  remainder.  But  this  was  a  resource  that  could  not 
last  long.  Nor  could  I,  without  seriously  compromising  Louise's  char- 
acter, be  constantly  in  the  house  with  a  girl  so  young,  and  whose  sole 
legitimate  protector  was  thus  afflicted.  There  seemed  but  one  alterna- 
tive to  that  ol  abandoning  her  altogether,  —  namely,  to  make  her  my 
wife,  to  conclude  the  studies  necessary  to  obtain  my  diploma,  and  pur- 


THE  PARISIANS.  339 

chase  some  partnership  in  a  small  country  practice  with  the  scanty  sur- 
plus that  might  be  left  of  my  capital.  I  placed  this  option  before  Louise 
timidly,  for  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  forcing  her  inclinations. 
She  seemed  much  moved  by  what  she  called  my  generosity:  she  con- 
sented; we  were  married.  I  was,  as  you  may  conceive,  wholly  ignorant 
of  French  law.  We  were  married  according  to  the  English  ceremony 
and  the  Protestant  ritual.  Shortly  after  our  marriage  we  all  three 
returned  to  Paris,  taking  an  apartment  in  a  quarter  remote  from  that 
in  which  we  had  before  lodged,  in  order  to  avoid  any  harassment  to 
which  such  small  creditors  as  Duval  had  left  behind  him  might  subject 
us.  I  resumed  my  studies  with  redoubled  energy,  and  Louise  was  neces- 
sarily left  much  alone  with  her  poor  father  in  the  daytime.  The  defects 
in  her  character  became  more  and  more  visible.  She  reproached  me 
for  the  solitude  to  which  I  condemned  her  ;  our  poverty  galled  her  ;  she 
had  no  kind  greeting  for  me  when  I  returned  at  evening,  wearied  out. 
Before  marriage  she  had  not  loved  me  ;  after  marriage,  alas  1  I  fear  she 
hated.  We  had  been  returned  to  Paris  some  months  when  poor  Duval 
died;  he  had  never  recovered  his  faculties,  nor  had  we  ever  learned 
from  whom  his  pension  had  been  received.  Very  soon  after  her  father's 
death  I  observed  a  singular  change  in  the  humour  and  manner  of  Louise. 
She  was  no  longer  peevish,  irascible,  reproachful;  but  taciturn  and 
thoughtful.  She  seemed  to  me  under  the  influence  of  some  suppressed 
excitement,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eye  abstracted.  At  length,  one 
evening  when  I  returned  I  found  her  gone.  She  did  not  come  back  that 
night  nor  the  next  day.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  conjecture  what 
had  become  of  her.  She  had  no  friends,  so  far  as  I  knew  ;  no  one  had 
visited  at  our  squalid  apartment.  The  poor  house  in  which  we  lodged 
had  no  concierge  whom  I  could  question  ;  but  the  ground-floor  was 
occupied  by  a  small  tobacconist's  shop,  and  the  woman  at  the  counter 
told  me  that  for  some  days  before  my  wife's  disappearance,  she  had 
observed  her  pass  the  shop-window  in  going  out  in  the  afternoon  and 
returning  towards  the  evening.  Two  terrible  conjectures  beset  me : 
either  in  her  walk  she  had  met  some  admirer,  with  whom  she  had  fled ; 
or,  unable  to  bear  the  companionship  and  poverty  of  a  union  which  she 
had  begun  to  loathe,  she  had  gone  forth  to  drown  herself  in  the  Seine. 
On  the  third  day  from  her  flight  I  received  the  letter  I  enclose.  Possi- 
bly the  handwriting  may  serve  you  as  a  guide  in  the  mission  I  intrust  to 
you. 

MONSIEUR, — You  have  deceived  me  vilely,  —  taken  advantage  of  my  inex- 
perienced youth  and  friendless  position  to  decoy  me  into  an  illegal  marriage. 
My  only  consolation  under  my  calamity  and  disgrace  is,  that  I  am  at  least 
free  from  a  detested  bond  You  will  not  see  me  again,  —  it  is  idle  to  attempt 


340  THE  PARISIANS. 

to  do  so.  I  have  obtained  refuge  with  relations  whom  I  have  been  fortunate 
enough  to  discover,  and  to  whom  I  intrust  my  fate ;  and  even  if  you  could 
learn  the  shelter  I  have  sought,  and  have  the  audacity  to  molest  me,  you 
would  but  subject  yourself  to  the  chastisement  you  so  richly  deserve. 

LOUISE  DUVAL. 

At  the  perusal  of  this  cold-hearted,  ungrateful  letter,  the  love  I  had 
felt  for  this  woman  —  already  much  shaken  by  her  wayward  and  per- 
verse temper  —  vanished  from  my  heart,  never  to  return.  But  as  an 
honest  man,  my  conscience  was  terribly  stung.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
I  had  unknowingly  deceived  her,  —  that  our  marriage  was  not  legal  ? 

When  I  recovered  from  the  stun  which  was  the  first  effect  of  her 
letter,  I  sought  the  opinion  of  an  avoue'  in  the  neighbourhood,  named 
Sartiges,  and  to  my  dismay,  I  learned  that  while  I,  marrying  according 
to  the  customs  of  my  own  country,  was  legally  bound  to  Louise  in 
England,  and  could  not  marry  another,  the  marriage  was  in  all  ways 
illegal  for  her,  —  being  without  the  consent  of  her  relations  while  she 
was  under  age ;  without  the  ceremonials  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
—  to  which,  though  I  never  heard  any  profession  of  religious  belief  from 
her  or  her  father,  it  might  fairly  be  presumed  that  she  belonged  ;  and, 
above  all,  without  the  form  of  civil  contract  which  is  indispensable  to 
the  legal  marriage  of  a  French  subject. 

The  avoue  said  that  the  marriage,  therefore,  in  itself  was  null,  and 
that  Louise  could,  without  incurring  legal  penalties  for  bigamy,  marry 
again  in  France  according  to  the  French  laws ;  but  that  under  the 
circumstances  it  was  probable  that  her  next  of  kin  would  apply  on  her 
behalf  to  the  proper  court  for  the  formal  annulment  of  the  marriage, 
which  would  be  the  most  effectual  mode  of  saving  her  from  any  moles- 
tation on  my  part,  and  remove  all  possible  questions  hereafter  as  to  her 
single  state  and  absolute  right  to  remarry.  I  had  better  remain  quiet, 
and  wait  for  intimation  of  further  proceedings.  I  knew  not  what  else 
to  do.  and  necessarily  submitted. 

From  this  wretched  listlessness  of  mind,  alternated  now  by  vehement 
resentment  against  Louise,  now  by  the  reproach  of  my  own  sense  of 
honour  in  leaving  that  honour  in  so  questionable  a  point  of  view,  I  was 
aroused  by  a  letter  from  the  distant  kinsman  by  whom  hitherto  I  had 
been  so  neglected.  In  the  previous  year  he  had  lost  one  of  his  two 
children  ;  the  other  was  just  dead.  No  nearer  relation  now  surviving 
stood  between  me  and  my  chance  of  inheritance  from  him.  He  wrote 
word  of  his  domestic  affliction  with  a  manly  sorrow  which  touched  me, 
said  that  his  health  was  failing,  and  begged  me,  as  soon  as  possible, 
to  come  and  visit  him  in  Scotland.  I  went,  and  continued  to  reside 


THE  PARISIANS.  341 

with  him  till  his  death,  some  months  afterwards.  By  his  will  I  suc- 
ceeded to  his  ample  fortune  on  condition  of  taking  his  name. 

As  soon  as  the  affairs  connected  with  this  inheritance  permitted,  I 
returned  to  Paris,  and  again  saw  M.  Sartiges.  I  had  never  heard  from 
Louise,  nor  from  any  one  connected  with  her  since  the  letter  you 
have  read.  No  steps  had  been  taken  to  annul  the  marriage,  and  suffi- 
cient time  had  elapsed  to  render  it  improbable  that  such  steps  would  be 
taken  now ;  but  if  no  such  steps  were  taken,  however  free  from  the 
marriage-bond  Louise  might  be,  it  clearly  remained  binding  on  myself. 

At  my  request,  M.  Sartiges  took  the  most  vigorous  measures  that 
occurred  to  him  to  ascertain  where  Louise  was,  and  what  and  who  was 
the  relation  with  whom  she  asserted  she  had  found  refuge.  The  police 
were  employed;  advertisements  were  issued,  concealing  names,  but 
sufficiently  clear  to  be  intelligible  to  Louise  if  they  came  under  her  eye, 
and  to  the  effect  that  if  any  informality  in  our  marriage  existed,  she 
was  implored  for  her  own  sake  to  remove  it  by  a  second  ceremonial  — 
answer  to  be  addressed  to  the  avoue.  No  answer  came ;  the  police  had 
hitherto  failed  of  discovering  her,  but  were  sanguine  of  success,  when  a 
few  weeks  after  these  advertisements  a  packet  reached  M.  Sartiges, 
enclosing  the  certificates  annexed  to  this  letter,  of  the  death  of  Louise 
Duval  at  Munich.  The  certificates,  as  you  will  see,  are  to  appearance 
officially  attested  and  unquestionably  genuine.  So  they  were  considered 
by  M.  Sartiges  as  well  as  by  myself.  Here,  then,  all  inquiry  ceased ; 
the  police  were  dismissed.  I  was  free.  By  little  and  little  I  overcame 
the  painful  impressions  which  my  ill-starred  union  and  the  announce- 
ment of  Louise's  early  death  bequeathed.  Rich,  and  of  active  mind,  I 
learned  to  dismiss  the  trials  of  my  youth  as  a  gloomy  dream.  I  entered 
into  public  life;  I  made  myself  a  creditable  position  ;  became  acquainted 
with  your  aunt ;  we  were  wedded,  and  the  beauty  of  her  nature  em- 
bellished mine.  Alas,  alas !  two  years  after  our  marriage  —  nearly  five 
years  after  I  had  received  the  certificates  of  Louise's  death  —  I  and 
your  aunt  made  a  summer  excursion  into  the  country  of  the  Rhine ;  on 
our  return  we  rested  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  One  day  while  there  I  was 
walking  alone  in  the  environs  of  the  town,  when,  on  the  road,  a  little 
girl,  seemingly  about  five  years  old,  in  chase  of  a  butterfly,  stumbled 
and  fell  just  before  my  feet;  I  took  her  up,  and  as  she  was  crying  more 
from  the  shock  of  the  fall  than  any  actual  hurt,  I  was  still  trying  my 
best  to  comfort  her,  when  a  lady  some  paces  behind  her  came  up,  and 
in  taking  the  child  from  my  arms  as  I  was  bending  over  her,  thanked 
me  in  a  voice  that  made  my  heart  stand  still.  I  looked  up,  and  beheld 
Louise. 

It  was  not  till  I  had  convulsively  clasped  her  hand  and  uttered  her 


342  THE  PARISIANS. 

name  that  she  recognized  me.  I  was,  no  doubt,  the  more  altered  of  the 
two,  —  prosperity  and  happiness  had  left  little  trace  of  the  needy,  care- 
worn, threadbare  student.  But  if  she  were  the  last  to  recognize,  she 
was  the  first  to  recover  self-possession.  The  expression  of  her  face 
became  hard  and  set.  I  cannot  pretend  to  repeat  with  any  verbal 
accuracy  the  brief  converse  that  took  place  between  us,  as  she  placed 
the  child  on  the  grass  bank  beside  the  path,  bade  her  stay  there  quietly, 
and  walked  on  with  me  some  paces  as  if  she  did  not  wish  the  child  to 
hear  what  was  said. 

The  purport  of  what  passed  was  to  this  effect :  She  refused  to  explain 
the  certificates  of  her  death  further  than  that,  becoming  aware  of  what 
she  called  the  "  persecution  "  of  the  advertisements  issued  and  inquiries 
instituted,  she  had  caused  those  documents  to  be  sent  to  the  address 
given  in  the  advertisement,  in  order  to  terminate  all  further  molesta- 
tion. But  how  they  could  have  been  obtained,  or  by  what  art  so 
ingeniously  forged  as  to  deceive  the  acuteness  of  a  practised  lawyer,  I 
know  not  to  this  day.  She  declared,  indeed,  that  she  was  now  happy, 
in  easy  circumstances,  and  that  if  I  wished  to  make  some  reparation  for 
the  wrong  I  had  done  her,  it  would  be  to  leave  her  in  peace ;  and  in 
case  —  which  was  not  likely  —  we  ever  met  again,  to  regard  and  treat 
her  as  a  stranger ;  that  she,  on  her  part,  never  would  molest  me,  and 
that  the  certified  death  of  Louise  Duval  left  me  as  free  to  marry  again 
as  she  considered  herself  to  be. 

My  mind  was  so  confused,  so  bewildered,  while  she  thus  talked,  that 
I  did  not  attempt  to  interrupt  her.  The  blow  had  so  crushed  me  that 
I  scarcely  struggled  under  it ;  only,  as  she  turned  to  leave  me,  I  sud- 
denly recollected  that  the  child,  when  taken  from  my  arms,  had  called 
her  "Maman,"  and,  judging  by  the  apparent  age  of  the  child,  it  must 
have  been  born  but  a  few  months  after  Louise  had  left  me,  —  that  it 
must  be  mine.  And  so,  in  my  dreary  woo,  I  faltered  out,  "  But  what 
of  your  infant  ?  Surely  that  has  on  me  a  claim  that  you  relinquish  for 
yourself.  You  were  not  unfaithful  to  me  while  you  deemed  you  were 
my  wife  ?  " 

"  Heavens  1  can  you  insult  me  by  such  a  doubt  ?  No !  "  she  cried 
out,  impulsively  and  haughtily.  "  But  as  I  was  not  legally  your  wife, 
the  child  is  not  legally  yours ;  it  is  mine,  and  only  mine.  Nevertheless, 
if  you  wish  to  claim  it ''  —  here  she  paused  as  in  doubt.  I  saw  at  once 
that  she  was  prepared  to  resign  to  me  the  child  if  I  had  urged  her  to 
do  so.  I  must  own,  with  a  pang  of  remorse,  that  I  recoiled  from  such  a 
proposal.  What  could  I  do  with  the  child  ?  How  explain  to  my  wife 
the  cause  of  my  interest  in  it  ?  If  only  a  natural  child  of  mine,  I 
should  have  shrunk  from  owning  to  Janet  a  youthful  error.  But  as  it 


THE  PARISIANS.  343 

was,  —  the  child  by  a  former  marriage,  the  former  wife  still  living  !  — 
my  blood  ran  cold  with  dread.  And  if  I  did  take  the  child,  invent 
what  story  I  might  as  to  its  parentage,  should  I  not  expose  myself, 
expose  Janet,  to  terrible  constant  danger  ?  The  mother's  natural  affec- 
tion might  urge  her  at  a^y  time  to  seek  tidings  of  the  child,  and  in  so 
doing  she  might  easily  discover  my  new  name,  and,  perhaps  years 
hence,  establish  on  me  her  own  claim. 

No,  I  could  not  risk  such  perils.  I  replied  sullenly,  "  You  say 
rightly  ;  the  child  is  yours,  —  only  yours."  I  was  about  to  add  an  offer 
of  pecuniary  provision  for  it,  but  Louise  had  already  turned  scornfully 
towards  the  bank  on  which  she  had  left  the  infant.  I  saw  her  snatch 
from  the  child's  hand  some  wild  flowers  the  poor  thing  had  been 
gathering;  and  how  often  have  I  thought  of  the  rude  way  in  which 
she  did  it,  —  not  as  a  mother  who  loves  her  child.  Just  then  other 
passengers  appeared  on  the  road ;  two  of  them  I  knew,  —  an  English 
couple  very  intimate  with  Lady  Janet  and  myself.  They  stopped  to 
accost  me,  while  Louise  passed  by  with  the  infant  towards  the  town.  I 
turned  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  strove  to  collect  my  thoughts. 
Terrible  as  was  the  discovery  thus  suddenly  made,  it  was  evident  that 
Louise  had  as  strong  an  interest  as  myself  to  conceal  it.  There  was 
little  chance  that  it  would  ever  be  divulged.  Her  dress  and  that  of  the 
child  were  those  of  persons  in  the  richer  classes  of  life.  After  all, 
doubtless,  the  child  needed  not  pecuniary  assistance  from  me,  and  was 
surely  best  off  under  the  mother's  care.  Thus  I  sought  to  comfort  and 
to  delude  myself. 

The  next  day  Janet  and  I  left  Aix-la-Chapelle  and  returned  to 
England.  But  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  banish  the  dreadful  thought 
that  Janet  was  not  legally  my  wife ;  that  could  she  even  guess  the 
secret  lodged  in  my  breast  she  would  be  lost  to  me  forever,  even  though 
she  died  of  the  separation  (you  know  well  how  tenderly  she  loved  me). 
My  nature  underwent  a  silent  revolution.  I  had  previously  cherished 
the  ambition  common  to  most  men  in  public  life,  —  the  ambition  for 
fame,  for  place,  for  power.  That  ambition  left  me;  I  shrank  from  the 
thought  of  becoming  too  well  known,  lest  Louise  or  her  connections,  as 
yet  ignorant  of  my  new  name,  might  more  easily  learn  what  the  world 
knew ;  namely,  that  I  had  previously  borne  another  name,  —  the  name 
of  her  husband,  —  and  finding  me  wealthy  and  honoured,  might  here- 
after be  tempted  to  claim  for  herself  or  her  daughter  the  ties  she  ad- 
jured for  both  while  she  deemed  me  poor  and  despised.  But  partly  my 
conscience,  partly  the  influence  of  the  angel  by  my  side,  compelled  me 
to  seek  whatever  means  of  doing  good  to  others  position  and  circum- 
stances placed  at  my  disposal.  I  was  alarmed  when  even  such  quiet 


344  THE  PARISIANS. 

exercise  of  mind  and  fortune  acquired  a  sort  of  celebrity.  How  pain- 
fully I  shrank  from  it !  The  world  attributed  my  dread  of  publicity  to 
unaffected  modesty.  The  world  praised  me,  and  I  knew  myself  an 
impostor.  But  the  years  stole  on.  I  heard  no  more  of  Louise  or  her 
child,  and  my  fears  gradually  subsided.  Yet  I  was  consoled  when  the 
two  children  born  to  me  by  Janet  died  in  their  infancy.  Had  they 
lived,  who  can  tell  whether  something  might  not  have  transpired  to 
prove  them  illegitimate  't 

I  must  hasten  on.  At  last  came  the  great  and  crushing  calamity  of 
my  life,  —  I  lost  the  woman  who  was  my  all  in  all.  At  least  she  was 
spared  the  discovery  that  would  have  deprived  me  of  the  right  of  tend- 
ing her  deathbed,  and  leaving  within  her  tomb  a  place  vacant  for 
myself. 

But  after  the  first  agonies  that  followed  her  loss,  the  conscience  I 
had  so  long  sought  to  tranquillize  became  terribly  reproachful.  Louise 
had  forfeited  all  right  to  my  consideration,  but  my  guiltless  child  had 
not  done  so.  Did  it  live  still  ?  If  so,  was  it  not  the  heir  to  my  fortunes, 
—  the  only  child  left  to  me  ?  True,  I  have  the  absolute  right  to  dis- 
pose of  my  wealth .  it  is  not  in  land  ;  it  is  not  entailed  :  but  was  not  the 
daughter  I  had  forsaken  morally  the  first  claimant ;  was  no  reparation 
due  to  her  ?  You  remember  that  my  physician  ordered  me,  some  little 
time  after  your  aunt's  death,  to  seek  a  temporary  change  of  scene.  I 
obeyed,  and  went  away  no  one  knew  whither.  Well,  I  repaired  to 
Paris;  there  I  sought  M.  Sartiges,  the  avoue.  I  found  he  had  been 
long  dead.  I  discovered  his  executors,  and  inquired  if  any  papers  or 
correspondence  between  Richard  Macdonald  and  himself  many  years 
ago  were  in  existence.  All  such  documents,  with  others  not  returned 
to  correspondents  at  his  decease,  had  been  burned  by  his  desire.  No 
possible  clew  to  the  whereabouts  of  Louise,  should  any  have  been 
gained  since  I  last  saw  her,  was  left.  What  then  to  do  I  knew  not.  I 
did  not  dare  to  make  inquiries  through  strangers,  which,  if  discovering 
my  child,  might  also  bring  to  light  a  marriage  that  would  have  dis- 
honoured the  memory  of  my  lost  saint.  I  returned  to  England,  feeling 
that  my  days  were  numbered.  It  is  to  you  that  I  transmit  the  task  of 
those  researches  which  I  could  not  institute.  I  bequeath  to  you,  with 
the  exception  of  trifling  legacies  and  donations  to  public  charities,  the 
whole  of  my  fortune ;  but  you  will  understand  by  this  letter  that  it  is  to 
be  held  on  a  trust  which  I  cannot  specify  in  my  will.  I  could  not, 
without  dishonouring  the  venerated  name  of  your  aunt,  indicate  as  the 
heiress  of  my  wealth  a  child  by  a  wife  living  at  the  time  I  married 
Janet.  I  cannot  form  any  words  for  such  a  devise  which  would  not 
arouse  gossip  and  suspicion,  and  furnish  ultimately  a  clew  to  the  discov- 


THE  PARISIANS.  345 

ery  I  would  shun.  I  calculate  that,  after  all  deductions,  the  sum  that 
will  devolve  to  you  will  be  about  £220,000.  That  which  I  mean  to 
be  absolutely  and  at  once  yours  is  the  comparatively  trifling  legacy  of 
£20,000.  If  Louise's  child  be  not  living,  or  if  you  find  full  reason  to 
suppose  that  despite  appearances  the  child  is  not  mine,  the  whole  of  my 
fortune  lapses  to  you ;  but  should  Louise  be  surviving  and  need  pecun- 
iary aid,  you  will  contrive  that  she  may  have  such  an  annuity  as  you 
may  deem  fitting,  without  learning  whence  it  come.  You  perceive  that 
it  is  your  object,  if  possible,  even  more  than  mine,  to  preserve  free  from 
slur  the  name  and  memory  of  her  who  was  to  you  a  second  mother.  All 
ends  we  desire  would  be  accomplished  could  you,  on  discovering  my 
lost  child,  feel  that,  without  constraining  your  inclinations,  you  could 
make  her  your  wife.  She  would  then  naturally  share  with  you  my  for- 
tune, and  all  claims  of  justice  and  duty  would  be  quietly  appeased. 
She  would  now  be  of  age  suitable  to  yours.  When  I  saw  her  at  Aix 
she  gave  promise  of  inheriting  no  small  share  of  her  mother's  beauty. 
If  Louise's  assurance  of  her  easy  circumstances  were  true,  her  daughter 
has  possibly  been  educated  and  reared  with  tenderness  and  care.  You 
have  already  assured  me  that  you  have  no  prior  attachment.  But  if, 
on  discovering  this  child,  you  find  her  already  married,  or  one  whom  you 
could  not  love  nor  esteem,  I  leave  it  implicitly  to  your  honour  and  judg- 
ment to  determine  what  share  of  the  £200,000  left  in  your  hands  should 
be  consigned  to  her.  She  may  have  been  corrupted  by  her  mother's 
principles.  She  may  —  Heaven  forbid!  —  have  fallen  into  evil  courses, 
and  wealth  would  be  misspent  in  her  hands.  In  that  case  a  competence 
sufficing  to  save  her  from  further  degradation,  from  the  temptations  of 
poverty,  would  be  all  that  I  desire  you  to  devote  from  my  wealth.  On 
the  contrary,  you  may  find  in  her  one  who,  in  all  respects,  ought  to  be 
my  chief  inheritor.  All  this  I  leave  in  full  confidence  to  you,  as  being, 
of  all  the  men  I  know,  the  one  who  unites  the  highest  sense  of  honour 
with  the  largest  share  of  practical  sense  and  knowledge  of  life.  The 
main  difficulty,  whatever  this  lost  girl  may  derive  from  my  substance, 
will  be  in  devising  some  means  to  convey  it  to  her  so  that  neither  she 
nor  those  around  her  may  trace  the  bequest  to  me.  She  can  never  be 
acknowledged  as  my  child,  —  never !  Your  reverence  for  the  beloved 
dead  forbids  that.  This  difficulty  your  clear  strong  sense  must  over- 
come; mine  is  blinded  by  the  shades  of  death.  You  too  will  deliber- 
ately consider  how  to  institute  the  inquiries  after  mother  and  child  so 
as  not  to  betray  our  secret.  This  will  require  great  caution.  You  will 
probably  commence  at  Paris,  through  the  agency  of  the  police,  to  whom 
you  will  be  very  guarded  in  your  communications.  It  is  most  unfor- 
tunate that  I  have  no  miniature  of  Louise,  and  that  any  description  of 


346  THE  PARISIANS. 

her  must  be  so  vague  that  it  may  not  serve  to  discover  her ;  but  such  as 
it  is,  it  may  prevent  your  mistaking  for  her  some  other  of  her  name. 
Louise  was  above  the  common  height,  and  looked  taller  than  she  was, 
with  the  peculiar  combination  of  very  dark  hair,  very  fair  complexion, 
and  light-gray  eyes.  She  would  now  be  somewhat  under  the  age  of 
forty.  She  was  not  without  accomplishments,  derived  from  the  com- 
panionship with  her  father.  She  spoke  English  fluently  ;  she  drew 
with  taste,  and  even  with  talent.  You  will  see  the  prudence  of  confin- 
ing research  at  first  to  Louise,  rather  than  to  the  child  who  is  the 
principal  object  of  it ;  for  it  is  not  till  you  can  ascertain  what  has  be- 
come of  her  that  you  can  trust  the  accuracy  of  any  information  respect- 
ing the  daughter,  whom  I  assume,  perhaps  after  all  erroneously,  to  be 
mine.  Though  Louise  talked  with  such  levity  of  holding  herself  free  to 
marry,  the  birth  of  her  child  might  be  sufficient  injury  to  her  reputation 
to  become  a  serious  obstacle  to  such  second  nuptials,  not  having  taken 
formal  steps  to  annul  her  marriage  with  myself.  If  not  thus  remarried, 
there  would  be  no  reason  why  she  should  not  resume  her  maiden  name 
of  Duval,  as  she  did  in  the  signature  of  her  letter  to  me :  finding  that  I 
had  ceased  to  molest  her  by  the  inquiries,  to  elude  which  she  had  in- 
vented the  false  statement  of  her  death.  It  seems  probable,  therefore, 
that  she  is  residing  somewhere  in  Paris,  and  in  the  name  of  Duval.  Of 
course  the  burden  of  uncertainty  as  to  your  future  cannot  be  left  to  op- 
press you  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time.  If  at  the  end,  say,  of  two 
years,  your  researches  have  wholly  failed,  consider  three-fourths  of  my 
whole  fortune  to  have  passed  to  you,  and  put  by  the  fourth  to  accumu- 
late, should  the  child  afterwards  be  discovered,  and  satisfy  your  judg- 
ment as  to  her  claims  on  me  as  her  father.  Should  she  not,  it  will  be  a 
reserve  fund  for  your  own  children.  But  oh,  if  my  child  could  be  found 
in  time  !  and  oh,  if  she  be  all  that  could  win  your  heart,  and  be  the 
wife  you  would  select  from  free  choice  !  I  can  say  no  more.  Pity  me, 
and  judge  leniently  of  Janet's  husband. 

R.  K. 

The  key  to  Graham's  conduct  is  now  given,  —  the  deep  sor- 
row that  took  him  to  the  tomb  of  the  aunt  he  so  revered,  and 
whose  honoured  memory  was  subjected  to  so  great  a  risk;  the 
slightness  of  change  in  his  expenditure  and  mode  of  life, 
after  an  inheritance  supposed  to  be  so  ample ;  the  abnegation 
of  his  political  ambition;  the  subject  of  his  inquiries,  and 
the  cautious  reserve  imposed  upon  them;  above  all,  the  posi- 
tion towards  Isaura  in  which  he  was  so  cruelly  placed. 


THE  PARISIANS.  347 

Certainly,  his  first  thought  in  revolving  the  conditions  of 
his  trust  had  been  that  of  marriage  with  this  lost  child  of 
Richard  King's,  should  she  be  discovered  single,  disengaged, 
and  not  repulsive  to  his  inclinations.  Tacitly  he  subscribed 
to  the  reasons  for  this  course  alleged  by  the  deceased.  It 
was  the  simplest  and  readiest  plan  of  uniting  justice  to  the 
rightful  inheritor  with  care  for  a  secret  so  important  to  the 
honour  of  his  aunt,  of  Richard  King  himself,  —  his  benefactor, 
—  of  the  illustrious  house  from  which  Lady  Janet  had  sprung. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  consideration  that  by  this  course  a  fortune 
so  useful  to  his  career  was  secured  was  not  without  influence 
on  the  mind  of  a  man  naturally  ambitious.  But  on  that 
consideration  he  forbade  himself  to  dwell.  He  put  it  away 
from  him  as  a  sin.  Yet,  to  marriage  with  any  one  else,  until 
his  mission  was  fulfilled,  and  the  uncertainty  as  to  the  extent 
of  his  fortune  was  dispelled,  there  interposed  grave  practical 
obstacles.  How  could  he  honestly  present  himself  to  a  girl 
and  to  her  parents  in  the  light  of  a  rich  man,  when  in  reality 
he  might  be  but  a  poor  man?  How  could  he  refer  to  any 
lawyer  the  conditions  which  rendered  impossible  any  settle- 
ment that  touched  a  shilling  of  the  large  sum  which  at  any 
day  he  might  have  to  transfer  to  another?  Still,  when  once 
fully  conspicuous  how  deep  was  the  love  with  which  Isaura 
had  inspired  him,  the  idea  of  wedlock  with  the  daughter  of 
Richard  King,  if  she  yet  lived  and  was  single,  became  inad- 
missible. The  orphan  condition  of  the  young  Italian  smoothed 
away  the  obstacles  to  proposals  of  marriage  which  would 
have  embarrassed  his  addresses  to  girls  of  his  own  rank,  and 
with  parents  who  would  have  demanded  settlements.  And 
if  he  had  found  Isaura  alone  on  that  day  on  which  he  had 
seen  her  last,  he  would  doubtless  have  yielded  to  the  voice 
of  his  heart,  avowed  his  love,  wooed  her  own,  and  committed 
both  to  the  tie  of  betrothal.  We  have  seen  how  rudely  such 
yearnings  of  his  heart  were  repelled  on  that  last  interview. 
His  English  prejudices  were  so  deeply  rooted,  that,  even  if 
he  had  been  wholly  free  from  the  trust  bequeathed  to  him,  he 
would  have  recoiled  from  marriage  with  a  girl  who,  in  the  ar- 
dour for  notoriety,  could  link  herself  with  such  associates  as 


348  THE  PARISIANS. 

Gustave  Rameau,  by  habits  a  Bohemian,  and  by  principles  a 
Socialist. 

In  flying  from  Paris,  he  embraced  the  resolve  to  banish  all 
thought  of  wedding  Isaura,  and  to  devote  himself  sternly  to 
the  task  which  had  so  sacred  a  claim  upon  him.  Not  that  he 
could  endure  the  idea  of  marrying  another,  even  if  the  lost 
heiress  should  be  all  that  his  heart  could  have  worshipped, 
had  that  heart  been  his  own  to  give;  but  he  was  impatient  of 
the  burden  heaped  on  him, —  of  the  fortune  which  might  not 
be  his,  of  the  uncertainty  which  paralyzed  all  his  ambitious 
schemes  for  the  future. 

Yet,   strive  as  he  would  —  and  no  man  couid  strive  more 
resolutely  —  he  could  not  succeed  in  banishing  the  image  of 
Isaura.     It  was  with  him  always ;  and  with  it  a  sense  of  irre- 
parable loss,  of  a  terrible  void,  of  a  pining  anguish. 

And  the  success  of  his  inquiries  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  while 
sufficient  to  detain  him  in  the  place,  was  so  slight,  and  ad- 
vanced by  such  slow  degrees,  that  it  furnished  no  continued 
occupation  to  his  restless  mind.  M.  Renard  was  acute  and 
painstaking.  But  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  obtain  any  trace 
of  a  Parisian  visitor  to  so  popular  a  Spa  so  many  years  ago. 
The  name  Duval,  too,  was  so  common,  that  at  Aix,  as  we 
have  seen  at  Paris,  time  was  wasted  in  the  chase  of  a  Duval 
who  proved  not  to  be  the  lost  Louise.  At  last  M.  Renard 
chanced  on  a  house  in  which,  in  the  year  1849,  two  ladies 
from  Paris  had  lodged  for  three  weeks.  One  was  named 
Madame  Duval,  the  other  Madame  Marigny.  They  were  both 
young,  both  very  handsome,  and  much  of  the  same  height  and 
colouring.  But  Madame  Marigny  was  the  handsomer  of  the 
two.  Madame  Duval  frequented  the  gaming-tables  and  was 
apparently  of  very  lively  temper.  Madame  Marigny  lived 
very  quietly,  rarely  or  never  stirred  out,  and  seemed  in  deli- 
cate health.  She,  however,  quitted  the  apartment  somewhat 
abruptly,  and,  to  the  best  of  the  lodging-house-keepex's  recol- 
lection, took  rooms  in  the  country  near  Aix  —  she  could  not 
remember  where.  About  two  months  after  the  departure  of 
Madame  Marigny,  Madame  Duval  also  left  Aix,  and  in  com- 
pany with  a  French  gentleman  who  had  visited  her  much  of 


THE  PARISIANS.  349 

late, —  a  handsome  man  of  striking  appearance.  The  lodging- 
house-keeper  did  not  know  what  or  who  he  was.  She  remem- 
bered that  he  used  to  be  announced  to  Madame  Duval  by  the 
name  of  M.  Achille.  Madame  Duval  had  never  been  seen 
again  by  the  lodging-house-keeper  after  she  had  left.  But 
Madame  Marigny  she  had  once  seen,  nearly  five  years  after 
she  had  quitted  the  lodgings, —  seen  her  by  chance  at  the  rail- 
way station,  recognized  her  at  once,  and  accosted  her,  offering 
her  the  old  apartment.  Madame  Marigny  had,  however, 
briefly  replied  that  she  was  only  at  Aix  for  a  few  hours,  and 
should  quit  it  the  same  day. 

The  inquiry  now  turned  towards  Madame  Marigny.  The 
date  on  which  the  lodging-house-keeper  had  last  seen  her 
coincided  with  the  year  in  which  Richard  King  had  met 
Louise.  Possibly,  therefore,  she  might  have  accompanied  the 
latter  to  Aix  at  that  time,  and  could,  if  found,  give  informa- 
tion as  to  her  subsequent  history  and  present  whereabouts. 

After  a  tedious  search  throughout  all  the  environs  of  Aix, 
Graham  himself  came,  by  the  merest  accident,  upon  the  ves- 
tiges of  Louise's  friend.  He  had  been  wandering  alone  in 
the  country  round  Aix,  when  a  violent  thunderstorm  drove 
him  to  ask  shelter  in  the  house  of  a  small  farmer,  situated  in 
a  field,  a  little  off  the  byway  which  he  had  taken.  While 
waiting  for  the  cessation  of  the  storm,  and  drying  his  clothes 
by  the  fire  in  a  room  that  adjoined  the  kitchen,  he  entered 
into  conversation  with  the  farmer's  wife,  a  pleasant,  well- 
mannered  person,  and  made  some  complimentary  observation 
on  a  small  sketch  of  the  house  in  water-colours  that  hung 
upon  the  wall.  "Ah,"  said  the  farmer's  wife,  "that  was 
done  by  a  French  lady  who  lodged  here  many  years  ago. 
She  drew  very  prettily,  poor  thing." 

"A  lady  who  lodged  here  many  years  ago,  —  how  many?" 

"Well,  I  guess  somewhere  about  twenty." 

"Ah,  indeed!     Was  it  a  Madame  Marigny?" 

"Bon  Dieuf  That  was  indeed  her  name.  Did  you  know 
her?  I  should  be  so  glad  to  hear  she  is  well  and  —  I  hope  — 
happy." 

"  I  do  not  know  where  she  is  now,  and  am  making  inquiries 


350  THE  PARISIANS. 

to  ascertain.  Pray  help  me.  How  long  did  Madame  Marigny 
lodge  with  you?  " 

"  I  think  pretty  well  two  months ;  yes,  two  months.  She 
left  a  month  after  her  confinement." 

"  She  was  confined  here?  " 

"Yes.  When  she  first  came,  I  had  no  idea  that  she  was 
enceinte.  She  had  a  pretty  figure,  and  no  one  would  have 
guessed  it,  in  the  way  she  wore  her  shawl.  Indeed  I  only 
began  to  suspect  it  a  few  days  before  it  happened;  and  that 
was  so  suddenly,  that  all  was  happily  over  before  we  could 
send  for  the  accoucheur." 

"And  the  child  lived?  —  a  girl  or  a  boy?" 

"A  girl, —  the  prettiest  baby." 

"Did  she  take  the  child  with  her  when  she  went?" 

"  No ;  it  was  put  out  to  nurse  with  a  niece  of  my  husband 
who  was  confined  about  the  same  time.  Madame  paid  liber- 
ally in  advance,  and  continued  to  send  money  half-yearly,  till 
she  came  herself  and  took  away  the  little  girl." 

"When  was  that, —  a  little  less  than  five  years  after  she 
had  left  it?  " 

"Why,  you  know  all  about  it,  Monsieur;  yes,  not  quite 
five  years  after.  She  did  not  come  to  see  me,  which  I  thought 
unkind,  but  she  sent  me,  through  my  niece-in-law,  a  real  gold 
watch  and  a  shawl.  Poor  dear  lady  —  for  lady  she  was  all 
over, — with  proud  ways,  and  would  not  bear  to  be  questioned. 
But  I  am  sure  she  was  none  of  your  French  light  ones,  but 
an  honest  wife  like  myself,  though  she  never  said  so." 

"And  have  you  no  idea  where  she  was  all  the  five  years 
she  was  away,  or  where  she  went  after  reclaiming  her  child?  " 

"No,  indeed,  Monsieur." 

"  But  her  remittances  for  the  infant  must  have  been  made 
by  letters,  and  the  letters  would  have  had  post-marks?" 

"Well,  I  dare  say;  I  am  no  scholar  myself.  But  suppose 
you  see  Marie  Hubert,  that  is  my  niece-in-law,  perhaps  she 
has  kept  the  envelopes." 

"Where  does  Madame  Hubert  live?" 

"It  is  just  a  league  off  by  the  short  path;  you  can't  miss 
the  way.  Her  husband  has  a  bit  of  land  of  his  own,  but  he 


THE  PARISIANS.  351 

is  also  a  carrier  —  'Max  Hubert,  carrier,' — written  over  the 
door,  just  opposite  the  first  church  you  get  to.  The  rain  has 
ceased,  but  it  may  be  too  far  for  you  to-day." 

" Not  a  bit  of  it.     Many  thanks." 

"  But  if  you  find  out  the  dear  lady  and  see  her,  do  tell  her 
how  pleased  I  should  be  to  hear  good  news  of  her  and  the 
little  one." 

Graham  strode  on  under  the  clearing  skies  to  the  house  in- 
dicated. He  found  Madame  Hubert  at  home,  and  ready  to 
answer  all  questions;  but,  alas!  she  had  not  the  envelopes. 
Madame  Marigny,  on  removing  the  child,  had  asked  for  all 
the  envelopes  or  letters,  and  carried  them  away  with  her. 
Madame  Hubert,  who  was  as  little  of  a  scholar  as  her  aunt- 
in-law  was,  had  never  paid  much  attention  to  the  post-marks 
on  the  envelopes;  and  the  only  one  that  she  did  remember 
was  the  first,  that  contained  a  bank-note,  and  that  post-mark 
was  "Vienna." 

"  But  did  not  Madame  Marigny's  letters  ever  give  you  an 
address  to  which  to  write  with  news  of  her  child?" 

"I  don't  think  she  cared  much  for  her  child,  Monsieur. 
She  kissed  it  very  coldly  when  she  came  to  take  it  away.  I 
told  the  poor  infant  that  that  was  her  own  mamma;  and 
Madame  said,  'Yes,  you  may  call  me  maman,'  in  a  tone  of 
voice  —  well,  not  at  all  like  that  of  a  mother.  She  brought 
with  her  a  little  bag  which  contained  some  fine  clothes  for 
the  child,  and  was  very  impatient  till  the  child  had  got  them 
on." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  it  was  the  same  lady  who  left  the 
child?  " 

"Oh,  there  is  no  doubt  of  that.  She  was  certainly  trts 
belle,  but  I  did  not  fancy  her  as  aunt  did.  She  carried  her 
head  very  high,  and  looked  rather  scornful.  However,  I 
must  say  she  behaved  very  generously." 

"Still  you  have  not  answered  my  question  whether  her 
letters  contained  no  address." 

"She  never  wrote  more  than  two  letters.  One  enclosing 
the  first  remittance  was  but  a  few  lines,  saying  that  if  the 
child  was  well  and  thriving,  I  need  not  write;  but  if  it  died 


352  THE  PARISIANS. 

or  became  dangerously  ill,  I  might  at  any  time  write  a  line  to 

Madame  M ,  Poste  Restante,  Vienna.  She  was  travelling 

about,  but  the  letter  would  be  sure  to  reach  her  sooner  or 
later.  The  only  other  letter  I  had  was  to  apprise  me  that 
she  was  coming  to  remove  the  child,  and  might  be  expected  in 
three  days  after  the  receipt  of  her  letter." 

"  And  all  the  other  communications  from  her  were  merely 
remittances  in  blank  envelopes?" 

"Exactly  so." 

Graham,  finding  he  could  learn  no  more,  took  his  departure. 
On  his  way  home,  meditating  the  new  idea  that  his  adventure 
that  day  suggested,  he  resolved  to  proceed  at  once,  accom- 
panied by  M.  Renard,  to  Munich,  and  there  learn  what  par- 
ticulars could  be  yet  ascertained  respecting  those  certificates 
of  the  death  of  Louise  Duval,  to  which  (sharing  Eichard 
King's  very  natural  belief  that  they  had  been  skilfully  forged) 
he  had  hitherto  attached  no  importance. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

No  satisfactory  result  attended  the  inquiries  made  at  Mu- 
nich save  indeed  this  certainty,  —  the  certificates  attesting  the 
decease  of  some  person  calling  herself  Louise  Duval  had  not 
been  forged.  They  were  indubitably  genuine.  A  lady  bear- 
ing that  name  had  arrived  at  one  of  the  principal  hotels  late 
in  the  evening,  and  had  there  taken  handsome  rooms.  She 
was  attended  by  no  servant,  but  accompanied  by  a  gentleman, 
who,  however,  left  the  hotel  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  her  lodged 
to  her  satisfaction.  The  books  of  the  hotel  still  retained  the 
entry  of  her  name,  —  Madame  Duval,  Fran^aise  rentiere.  On 
comparing  the  handwriting  of  this  entry  with  the  letter  from 
Richard  King's  first  wife,  Graham  found  it  to  differ;  but 
then  it  was  not  certain,  though  probable,  that  the  entry  had 
been  written  by  the  alleged  Madame  Duval  herself.  She  was 


THE   PARISIANS.  353 

visited  the  next  day  by  the  same  gentleman  who  had  accom- 
panied her  on  arriving.  He  dined  and  spent  the  evening  with 
her.  But  no  one  at  the  hotel  could  remember  what  was  the 
gentleman's  name,  nor  even  if  he  were  announced  by  any 
name.  He  never  called  again.  Two  days  afterwards, 
Madame  Duval  was  taken  ill;  a  doctor  was  sent  for,  and  at- 
tended her  till  her  death.  This  doctor  was  easily  found.  He 
remembered  the  case  perfectly,  —  congestion  of  the  lungs,  ap- 
parently caused  by  cold  caught  on  her  journey.  Fatal  symp- 
toms rapidly  manifested  themselves,  and  she  died  on  the  third 
day  from  the  seizure.  She  was  a  young  and  handsome  woman. 
He  had  asked  her  during  her  short  illness  if  he  should  not 
write  to  her  friends ;  if  there  were  no  one  she  would  wish  to 
be  sent  for.  She  replied  that  there  was  only  one  friend,  to 
whom  she  had  already  written,  and  who  would  arrive  in  a 
day  or  two;  and  on  inquiring,  it  appeared  that  she  had  writ- 
ten such  a  letter,  and  taken  it  herself  to  the  post  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  day  she  was  taken  ill. 

She  had  in  her  purse  not  a  large  sum,  but  money  enough 
to  cover  all  her  expenses,  including  those  of  her  funeral, 
which,  according  to  the  law  in  force  at  the  place,  followed 
very  quickly  on  her  decease.  The  arrival  of  the  friend  to 
whom  she  had  written  being  expected,  her  effects  were,  in 
the  meanwhile,  sealed  up.  The  day  after  her  death  a  letter 
arrived  for  her,  which  was  opened.  It  was  evidently  written 
by  a  man,  and  apparently  by  a  lover.  It  expressed  an  impas- 
sioned regret  that  the  writer  was  unavoidably  prevented  re- 
turning to  Munich  so  soon  as  he  had  hoped,  but  trusted  to  see 
his  dear  bouton  de  rose  in  the  course  of  the  following  week; 
it  was  only  signed  Achille,  and  gave  no  address.  Two  or 
three  days  after,  a  lady,  also  young  and  handsome,  arrived 
at  the  hotel,  and  inquired  for  Madame  Duval.  She  was 
greatly  shocked  at  hearing  of  her  decease.  When  sufficiently 
recovered  to  bear  being  questioned  as  to  Madame  Duval's  re- 
lations and  position,  she  appeared  confused;  said,  after  much 
pressing,  that  she  was  no  relation  to  the  deceased ;  that  she 
believed  Madame  Duval  had  no  relations  with  whom  she  was 
on  friendly  terms, —  at  least  she  had  never  heard  her  speak  of 

VOL.   1—2.3 


354  THE  PARISIANS. 

any ;  and  that  her  own  acquaintance  with  the  deceased,  though 
cordial,  was  very  recent.  She  could  or  would  not  give  any 
clew  to  the  writer  of  the  letter  signed  Achille,  and  she  her- 
self quitted  Munich  that  evening,  leaving  the  impression  that 
Madame  Duval  had  been  one  of  those  ladies  who,  in  adopting 
a  course  of  life  at  variance  with  conventional  regulations,  are 
repudiated  by  their  relations,  and  probably  drop  even  their 
rightful  names. 

Achille  never  appeared;  but  a  few  days  after,  a  lawyer  at 
Munich  received  a  letter  from  another  at  Vienna,  requesting, 
in  compliance  with  a  client's  instructions,  the  formal  certifi- 
cates of  Louise  Duval's  death.  These  were  sent  as  directed, 
and  nothing  more  about  the  ill-fated  woman  was  heard  of. 
After  the  expiration  of  the  time  required  by  law,  the  seals 
were  removed  from  the  effects,  which  consisted  of  two  mattes 
and  a  dressing-case.  But  they  only  contained  the  articles 
appertaining  to  a  lady's  wardrobe  or  toilet, —  no  letters, — 
not  even  another  note  from  Achille, —  no  clew,  in  short,  to 
the  family  or  antecedents  of  the  deceased.  What  then  had 
become  of  these  effects,  no  one  at  the  hotel  could  give  a  clear 
or  satisfactory  account.  It  was  said  by  the  mistress  of  the 
hotel,  rather  sullenly,  that  they  had,  she  supposed,  been  sold 
by  her  predecessor,  and  by  order  of  the  authorities,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  poor. 

If  the  lady  who  had  represented  herself  as  Louise  Duval's 
acquaintance  had  given  her  own  name,  which  doubtless  she 
did,  no  one  recollected  it.  It  was  not  entered  in  the  books 
of  the  hotel,  for  she  had  not  lodged  there;  nor  did  it  appear 
that  she  had  allowed  time  for  formal  examination  by  the  civil 
authorities.  In  fact,  it  was  clear  that  poor  Louise  Duval  had 
been  considered  as  an  adventuress  by  the  hotel-keeper  and 
the  medical  attendant  at  Munich;  and 'her  death  had  excited 
so  little  interest,  that  it  was  strange  that  even  so  many  par* 
ticulars  respecting  it  could  be  gleaned. 

After  a  prolonged  but  fruitless  stay  at  Munich,  Graham 
and  M.  Renard  repaired  to  Vienna;  there,  at  least,  Ma- 
dame Marigny  had  given  an  address,  and  there  she  might  be 
heard  of. 


THE  PARISIANS.  355 

At  Vienna,  however,  no  research  availed  to  discover  a  trace 
of  any  such  person ;  and  in  despair  Graham  returned  to  Eng- 
land in  the  January  of  1870,  and  left  the  further  prosecution 
of  his  inquiries  to  M.  Renard,  who,  though  obliged  to  trans- 
fer himself  to  Paris  for  a  time,  promised  that  he  would  leave 
no  stone  unturned  for  the  discovery  of  Madame  Marigny;  and 
Graham  trusted  to  that  assurance  when  M.  Renard,  rejecting 
half  of  the  large  gratuity  offered  him,  added,  "  Je  suis  Fran- 
$ais  ;  this  with  me  has  ceased  to  be  an  affair  of  money;  it  has 
become  an  affair  that  involves  my  amour  propre," 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

IF  Graham  Vane  had  been  before  caressed  and  courted  for 
himself,  he  was  more  than  ever  appreciated  by  polite  society, 
now  that  he  added  the  positive  repute  of  wealth  to  that  of  a 
promising  intellect.  Fine  ladies  said  that  Graham  Vane  was 
a  match  for  any  girl.  Eminent  politicians  listened  to  him 
with  a  more  attentive  respect,  and  invited  him  to  selecter  din- 
ner-parties. His  cousin  the  Duke  urged  him  to  announce  his 
candidature  for  the  county,  and  purchase  back,  at  least,  the 
old  Stamm-schloss.  But  Graham  obstinately  refused  to  enter- 
tain either  proposal,  continued  to  live  as  economically  as  be- 
fore in  his  old  apartments,  and  bore  with  an  astonishing 
meekness  of  resignation  the  unsolicited  load  of  fashion 
heaped  upon  his  shoulders.  At  heart  he  was  restless  and 
unhappy.  The  mission  bequeathed  to  him  by  Richard  King 
haunted  his  thoughts  like  a  spectre  not  to  be  exorcised.  Was 
his  whole  life  to  be  passed  in  the  weary  sustainment  of  an  im- 
posture which  in  itself  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  a  nature 
constitutionally  frank  and  open?  Was  he  forever  to  appear  a 
rich  man  and  live  as  a  poor  one?  Was  he  till  his  deathbed  to 
be  deemed  a  sordid  miser  whenever  he  refused  a  just  claim 
on  his  supposed  wealth,  and  to  feel  his  ambition  excluded 


356  THE   PARISIANS. 

from  the  objects  it  earnestly  coveted,  and  which  he  was 
forced  to  appear  too  much  of  an  Epicurean  philosopher  to 
prize? 

More  torturing  than  all  else  to  the  man's  innermost  heart 
was  the  consciousness  that  he  had  not  conquered,  could  not 
conquer,  the  yearning  love  with  which  Isaura  had  inspired 
him,  and  yet  that  against  such  love  all  his  reasonings,  all  his 
prejudices,  more  stubbornly  than  ever  were  combined.    In  the 
French  newspapers  which  he  had  glanced  over  while  engaged 
in  his  researches  in  Germany  —  nay,  in  German  critical  jour- 
nals themselves  —  he  had  seen  so  many  notices  of  the  young 
author,  —  highly  eulogistic,  it  is  true,  but  which  to  his  pecu- 
liar notions  were  more  offensive  than  if  they  had  been  suffi- 
ciently, condemnatory  of  her  work  to  discourage  her  from  its 
repetition ;  notices  which  seemed  to  him  the  supreme  imper- 
tinences which  no  man  likes  exhibited  towards  the  woman  to 
whom   he   would   render  the  chivalrous  homage  of  respect. 
Evidently  this  girl  had  become  as  much  public  property  as  if 
she  had  gone  on  the  stage.     Minute  details  of  her  personal 
appearance,  —  of  the  dimples  on  her  cheek,  of  the  whiteness 
of  her  arms,  of  her  peculiar  way  of  dressing  her  hair;  anec- 
dotes of  her  from  childhood  (of   course   invented,    but  how 
could  Graham   know  that?);    of  the   reasons   why   she   had 
adopted  the  profession  of  author  instead  of  that  of  the  singer; 
of  the  sensation  she  had  created  in  certain  salons  (to  Graham, 
who  knew  Paris  so  well,  salons  in  which  he  would  not  have 
liked  his  wife  to  appear) ;  of  the  compliments  paid  to  her  by 
grands  seigneurs  noted  for  their  liaisons  with  ballet-dancers, 
or  by  authors  whose  genius  soared  far  beyond  the  flammantia 
mcenia  of  a  world  confined  by  respect  for  one's  neighbours' 
land-marks, —  all  this,  which  belongs  to  ground  of  personal 
gossip   untouched    by  English    critics    of    female   writers, — 
ground  especially  favoured  by  Continental,  and,  I  am  grieved 
to  say,  by  American  journalists, —  all  this  was  to  the  sensitive 
Englishman   much  what   the    minute   inventory  of   Egeria's 
charms  would  have  been  to  Numa  Pompilius.     The  nymph, 
hallowed  to  him   by  secret  devotion,   was  vulgarized  by  the 
noisy  hands  of  the  mob,  and   by  the  popular  voices,  which 


THE   PARISIANS.  357 

said,  "We  know  more  about  Egeria  than  you  do."  And  when 
he  returned  to  England,  and  met  with  old  friends  familiar  to 
Parisian  life,  who  said,  "  of  course  you  have  read  the  Ci- 
cogna's  roman.  What  do  you  think  of  it?  Very  fine  writing, 
I  dare  say,  but  above  me.  I  go  in  for  'Les  Mysteres  de  Paris' 
or  'Monte  Cristo; '  but  I  even  find  Georges  Sand  a  bore," — 
then  as  a  critic  Graham  Vane  fired  up,  extolled  the  roman  he 
would  have  given  his  ears  for  Isaura  never  to  have  written; 
but  retired  from  the  contest  muttering  inly,  "  How  can  I  —  I, 
Graham  Vane  —  how  can  I  be  such  an  idiot;  how  can  I  in 
every  hour  of  the  twenty-four  sigh  to  itself,  'What  are  other 
women  to  me?  Isaura,  Isaura! '' 


EXD    OF    VOL.    I. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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